


Draco's Dastardly Plot -- Or -- Making Potter Lick and Suck and Stumble

by Chuffed4angst



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abduction, BDSM, Belly Kink, Chubby Harry, Chubby Kink, D/s, Disturbingly Hot, Fat Harry, Feeding Kink, Grey Draco, Humiliation, M/M, Post-War, Slightly Crazy Draco, Squicks and Triggers Galore, Weight Gain, expect the unexpected, het!dominatrix!creature, hostage Harry, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuffed4angst/pseuds/Chuffed4angst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shunned after the war, Draco decides all his woes were caused by one Harry James Potter, whose recently outrageous sucking and licking have inspired Draco’s dastardly sucking and licking and stumbling plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PREQUEL (or What in Plouton’s Underworld was Draco Thinking?)

July 7, 2001

 

A miserable Draco Malfoy plodded along Diagon Alley, completely alone and ignored in the midst of a bustling crowd of Saturday morning shoppers.

After a disgracefully scandalous trial, Draco and his mother had been acquitted of all war crimes. The nascent ray of optimism he had felt immediately after their exoneration had been sadly misplaced. Draco and Narcissa had been set free, but they were so totally ostracized as to be irrelevant.  Narcissa had withdrawn from society, not stepping foot outside of the Manor since the trial.  Taking every opportunity to escape, Draco spent his days wandering but he wasn’t really living in the present either. He’d gone from prince to pariah.  His friends were gone.  He was unemployable.  He had no future.  Some days he felt he may as well have been dead.

Initially, he had made every effort to play nice in the post-war world.  He’d applied for all varieties of employment and been rejected from them all.  After his first attempts failed he redoubled his efforts, again to no avail. 

Now, nearly a year and a half after his acquittal, he had lost faith.  One more mean spirited rejection after insulting dismissal had worn him thin.  In the last year, he had applied for and been rejected from every educational opportunity he could find.  He'd given up on Ministry openings but continued to apply for every entry level job in Wizarding London, whether listed in the Prophet or posted on help-wanted signs in the least presuming establishments imaginable.  Last month, he’d been rejected from three separate volunteer positions at St. Mungo’s. 

It didn’t help his psyche that his dear, irrational mother continued to hang her delusional hopes on his success.  Absurdly, she absolutely clung to his fictional bright future as the silver lining to their family’s catastrophic fall from grace.  Any night he could force himself to join her for dinner, she asked the same wretched questions and gave the same empty encouragements.  As hostile as the outside world was, Draco stayed away from home longer each day in a futile effort to avoid facing his mother.

As a last ditch effort, Draco had thrown pride to the wind and prostrated himself to his father's former allies to finagle an interview with Ponders, Bickerton and Maekination, the law firm that had represented the Malfoy family for generations.  The firm was still gladly charging thousands of Galleons a year for ineffective representation in his father's appeals.  Surely, he had hoped, the firm would value the Malfoy Family's ongoing business enough to actually hire him.  Unsurprisingly, he was rejected after a short and perfunctory audience. 

Most unfortunately, however, on his way out of building Draco spotted the Golden Git himself -- the penultimate _**somebody**_ to Draco's dismal _**nobody**_.  Draco caught sight of a regally entitled Golden Boy drinking tea in a senior partner’s office.  Draco was abruptly struck by the truth.  His shunning had been far too comprehensive to be mere happenstance.  All of the hints and clues fit together.  Draco now knew he was the victim of a concerted campaign by Harry Potter to blackball him.

Perhaps he would have been less paranoid on another day.  However, in that single moment, Draco’s cumulative stress collided with his dashed hopes.  His mind babbled with a kaleidoscopic cacophony of snowballing grievances.  His repressed anger and resentment at his current situation harmonized with the familiar tune of the old schoolboy rivalry.  Suddenly the answer was clear:  Harry Potter was to blame for Draco's dismal fate.   He decided then and there to decimate Potter's fate in return.

 

AN IMPOSSIBLE GOAL; A WICKED PLAN

The next day, Draco started stalking Potter to ascertain his habits and vulnerabilities.  With nothing better to do with his time, Potter Watching became his full time obsession.  Still, it was harder than he thought it would be.  Potter’s address was unavailable, no matter how brilliant his research or how many galleons he offered.  Draco eventually stood vigil at the DMLE entrance, hoping to track Potter from there.  Still, what with Potter’s erratic schedule and Draco’s need to remain unobserved, it took him weeks to track down Potter’s morning Apparation point -- a disused maintenance room in a Muggle department store around the corner from the public Ministry entrance.  Even after finding Potter’s path to work, Draco struggled to gather information because Potter generally kept to the shadows and dodged crowds – almost as if he knew someone was following him.  Draco followed from such a distance that he often lost his quarry. 

With every frustration and every set back, Draco’s insane focus on Potter sharpened and he vowed more extreme retribution.

Even the half-crazed Malfoy heir was not stupid enough to follow Potter into the Ministry.  That left him plenty of time during the working day to plan revenge.  Watching Potter, he wanted to see an arrogant berk running roughshod over his underlings, and, so, he interpreted benign events negatively.  Potter was unaccompanied and dodged the public because he was too good for company.  He maintained Muggle trappings as a symbol that rules did not apply to him due to his extraordinary status.  Shopping was mere pretext to coerce storekeepers to continue Malfoy’s exile. 

Intent on revenge as his twisted opportunity for redemption, Draco’s mania increased.  He worked more; slept less.  His entire existence focused on what power he could wield over Potter.

In the evenings, he researched hexes. He unearthed and poured over the very few books in the Manor library that contained minor hexes and found a strange array that ranged from the childish to the truly vile and borderline dark.  He searched for something that would be both embarrassing and intended to reduce the victim’s stature in the eyes of Wizarding world.  He contemplated stacking a number of speech impediment hexes to make Potter start every statement with a prolonged, moronic “duh” and then eventually lisp and drool while singing in iambic pentameter.  Researching coordination hexes, he found excellent ways to make Potter’s hands shake uncontrollably, his head wobble left to right, his feet drag or high step or trip, tap dance while standing in place, spin before coming to a stop, leap over curbs and other small obstacles, his knees buckle at random and unpredictable intervals, two-footed jumps into the middle of puddles, jab the other person whenever attempting to shake hands, spill any glass or mug when reaching.  All these seemed too whimsical for his purposes; too much like a Weasley prank.

The most delicious of all the hex sets, in Draco’s humble opinion, were the Dysintentional Genus because they imposed the exact opposite of the victim’s desire.  _Reticentia_ caused rude outbursts akin to Muggle Turrets syndrome, except the outburst was not random, but the precisely worst thing to say in the moment.  _Advorsus_ would cause the victim’s every utterance to come out opposite of what he intended.  _Dedecetus_ would force the victim to act wrongly, going left instead of right, selling low instead of high.  _Volubilitate_ eliminated the intention with which a verbal spell is cast, thereby causing some random effect.

However, the Ministry tracking spells on his wand presented a thorny difficulty to any plan.  The only hexes he could actually perform were C-Class hexes firmly in the Impermanence Phylum. Draco’s short stay in Azkaban was still too fresh in his mind for him to consider anything out of bounds.  With Potter’s know-it-all Brain-ger friend, there was no way Draco could be sure even the most well-cast C-Class hex would last more than a day or two. No matter how devious, a single day under the annoying influence of any simple hex couldn’t possibly reverse Potter’s fortunes in any significant sense.

He continued his surveillance and research despite the seeming impossibility of his task.  Having no other recourse, Draco trusted in magic and fortitude to provide inspiration.

 

INSPIRATION LIKE A LIGHTNING STRIKE

No matter how warped his thoughts or how much he would have liked to see Potter behave as Hades, Erebus and Chaos all rolled together, Draco couldn’t help but observe Potter’s mortal existence. Noting that Potter always picked up a pathetic paper-wrapped breakfast on the way to work and similarly packaged dinner on the way home, Draco began to wonder if Potter’s home boasted any cooking facilities at all.  Watching him eat fish and chips at a Muggle chippy one evening, Draco thought snidely that he didn’t need much revenge because Potter’s own atrocious lifestyle really was more than enough to nauseate any well-bred wizard’s stomach.

Potter’s decadent enjoyment was obvious as he bit off great hunks of fish, halved the thick greasy chips and licked his fingers.  Draco was appalled, but under his disgust lived thinly veiled provocation.  His mouth watered, he wanted to lick the salt off of Harry’s lower lip. Shifting uncomfortably, Draco was horrified to realize that he was ragingly aroused.  Unacceptably, painfully, throbbingly hard.  He knelt down to take a photo of Potter in a desperate bid for pressure or friction.  He was pathetic; pathologic.  It was all Potter’s fault!  Potter was the real problem, he reminded himself.  His reaction was a purely random physical quirk, he assured himself.  The experience did nothing but add fuel to his burning desire to ruin Potter.

Over the next weeks, he couldn’t help but notice that Potter almost never took his take-out home.  He rarely sat down to eat, but, instead, he dug into his food the moment he hit the pavement.  The more he watched, the more Draco thought he saw Potter struggling to fulfill more than mere hunger; something akin to passion.

But Potter’s passion was not the issue and Draco resolutely did not want to think about it.  The point was: how plebian and uncouth Potter was!  He sensuously slurped the foam off of his latte.  He squashed a bagel and licked the clotted cream that escaped.  He practically made love to a Fortesceu’s ice cream cone.  Merlin’s engorged balls, licking like that should be illegal.

And the sucking.  Potter sucked on blood pops, lemon drops, and bright Muggle ice on sticks.  His lips pursed around the dripping, wet ball of ice cream and then, always, turned up at the sides, as if Potter could think of no satisfaction better than sucking that particular sweet.

As if licking and sucking were not bad enough, Potter constantly shoved entire spoonfuls of food into his mouth, his spoon thrusting into and out of his mouth with disturbing regularity.  Draco found himself wanting to shove something into that fool’s mouth himself. 

Aargh!  Potter Watching was a sickness!

He took several days off with every intention of abandoning his folly, but found himself pulled irresistibly back to his post.

Draco soon found Potter’s licking and sucking and shoving was too short lived.  It was not that Draco yearned to watch Potter’s disgusting eating habits longer.  Definitely not.  It was simply a matter of astute observation that made Draco notice Potter’s disappointing tendency of licking or sucking or biting or spooning the first several bites of some food item with orgasmic pleasure, only to scowl and discard his food.

Watching Potter’s decadent and obscene food intake one evening, it occurred to him that Potter was remarkably thin.  Waiflike, insubstantial, fragile.  Come to think of it, Potter had disturbingly hollow cheeks, sharp angled jaw and wrists.  His robes tended to go askew, as if there were nothing filling them out.  Stupid waifish Potter was probably looking for attention and sympathy.  Merlin knew he wouldn’t maintain a slender figure as a fashion statement, because Potter couldn’t recognize fashion if there were a giant flashing arrow in the air pointing it out.

Waking up the next morning, the misty remnants of a dream left Draco with a vision of a perfect plan.  It involved abduction and food.  And sucking; lots of sucking.  He’d work out the details later, but that seemed like enough to be going on.

 

SLYTHERIN SOLUTIONS

Draco’s mind was so clouded with resentment and ghostly recriminations that he didn’t question his motivations or ultimate goal.  Instead, he worked on the puzzle of abducting Britain’s most prominent wizard – an Auror and Dark Lord killing wizard, at that – with nothing but his wit and inferior C-Class spells. 

First, he broke his plan into subparts.  Part One of his devious-but-yet-to-be-devised vengeance was to catch and temporarily restrain Potter so that he could inflict demeaning revenge (involving sucking).  Part Two involved releasing the Boy Wonder to expose him to whatever excruciating public humiliation he could inflict with C-Class spells.  Part Three was the unspoken desire to accomplish Parts One and Two without getting caught, thank you very much.

The obstacles were challenging: Potter’s magical strength, celebrity status, the guaranteed interest of the MLE Department, and the restrictions on Draco’s wand. Taken as a whole, the project seemed unattainable.  It was suicide; a one-way ticket to Azkaban.  He knew he should abandon the idea.  He considered it a tribute to his staunchness (perhaps boredom and insanity) that he persevered.

Unable to turn back, and having absolutely nothing else with which to occupy himself, Draco took to the task like a Niffler to gold. 

His primary problem was the restrictions and tracking charms on his wand.  A-Level spells like _obliviate_ or _imperious_ would draw Aurors to him faster than a Boggart to a phobic.  He was permitted a few B-Level spells in the event of specific need, but they were tracked and indexed by the Ministry probation office.  Draco knew he was limited to C-Level charms and hexes, traditionally used for household chores and entertaining young children.  To qualify as C-Level, a spell must be non-violent and limited to a single, benign purpose.

Draco considered utilizing potions, but knew his secrecy required that he only consider those rare potions in the Ethereal Genus that would dissipate and leave no trace of having been used.

The Manor’s library was woefully inadequate.  Its collection focused primarily on powerful dark magic.  Generations of reliance on house elves for household operations and a sneering distain for light and fluffy amusements virtually eliminated the possibility of finding any C-Class spells.

Draco extended his research to sources no self-respecting Malfoy would dream of considering.  He rummaged through the household and parenting sections at Flourish and Blotts, the Hogsmeade Parish Library and every second hand book store he could find.  He split his days between research and continued Potter watching.

After a fortnight of puzzling the initial abduction with every conceivable scenario in his limited arsenal, he was discouraged.  He simply could not devise a scenario in which he could reasonably expect to overpower Harry Potter without attracting attention and leaving an easily followed trail.  Even if he could capture the prat, his role on everyone’s center stage would guarantee that he would be missed and all the resources of DMLE set upon his rescue.  Draco’s shoddy options were simply not up to task.

One sunny afternoon as he mechanically followed Potter, he was actually pondering the advisability of foregoing his folly.  It was a Tuesday and, as he did every Tuesday, Potter turned left out of the Ministry, stopped at a Muggle newsstand to buy a large purple lolly and proceeded to suck for Britain as he walked three and a half blocks to a rancid hole in the wall Draco refused to call a restaurant, where he purchased odiferous Indian take-out.  Carrying his food in a bag, he chewed on a strange pink substance. Potter’s lips and tongue performed obscene contortions as he proceeded to blow large pink bubbles. 

Potter usually ducked into an alley where he Disapparated beyond Draco’s surveillance.  Only, today, Potter didn’t Disapparate.  On this rare sunny London day, he continued walking several blocks, cut through a square, and headed toward the river. 

Draco followed, wondering why Potter was walking so far and, more to the point, why he was heading past progressively dilapidated buildings?  Why was he diverting Draco by thrusting his tongue through that pink glop and blowing those bleeding bubbles?  Preoccupied with remaining undetected, Draco couldn’t come to any conclusions.  His tracking spell was strained to its limit as Potter crossed a large weedy square in the middle of a dead end cul-de-sac. 

Potter bound up the stone steps of a dark old townhouse and disappeared inside.

 

BLACK HOPE

_Huh.  This neglected old relic is the secret sanctuary of our sanctified savior?  Interesting._

Looking about, Draco saw the crooked old street sign that read “Grimauld Place.”  

_Oh._

_Potter lived in Aunt Wilburtha’s old family townhouse._

A confusion of long-forgotten childhood memories ran a chill down Draco’s back.  If his memories were accurate, Grimauld Place opened up a whole new realm of possibilities.  This house was keyed to the Black family bloodline.  A wicked grin broke out across his face as he considered the wealth of house secrets and darkly cursed family heirlooms at his disposal. 

Confident at last that his plan might actually be achievable, Draco Disapparated from his hiding place.

 


	2. THE DASTARDLY PLOT UNFOLDS

September 15, 2001

 

Harry pulled his head up with a start and looked around through smudged glasses.  Last thing, he’d just crossed the threshold into Grimmauld Place after a wearing day at the Ministry.  Now, his ankles and wrists were tightly bound to a chair at the end of a long table in a dim room cluttered with dusty antiques.  In a far corner sat a low wooden rack with manacles at the ends and an assortment of sharp implements hung above it.  Rolling his eyes, he wondered when dark wizards had become so very lacking in imagination.  Luckily, there were advantages to predictability.  This creepy scene was nearly an exact duplicate of the first emergency scenario in his Hostile Abductions Seminar last year, so at least he knew his options. 

Directing his magical forces to his right hand, he willed the band restraining his right wrist to open.  Nothing happened.  Nada.  Bupkes.  Zip.  Zilch.  Blast!

Harry went through all of the wandless magic he knew until he was convinced that something was blocking his magic entirely.  Double blast.  Bloody buggering shite.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to recall the more mundane strategies he’d learned for just this state of affairs.  They mainly consisted of keeping a cool head, not reacting emotionally, asking subtle questions to stall and to gain the captor’s trust and sympathy.  Right.  He could do that.  He’d be --

A figure fairly flew into the room, dark robes flowing behind him.

As the shadowed figure came into focus, Harry was stunned to see that a breathless, wild-eyed Draco Malfoy was his captor. 

Malfoy?  Bugger.  He’d never become real friends with the devious git, but he’d been fairly certain that they had buried their schoolboy grudges, for Merlin’s sake.  They had saved each other’s lives, after all.  Deciding Malfoy was more a spineless follower than any kind of true evil, Harry had put in a quiet good word to make sure Malfoy stayed out of Azkaban.  After the trials, he had returned Malfoy’s wand and thought that would be the end of it.  Was this his reward for keeping the Ferret out of jail and giving him his sodding wand back?

All these thoughts swirled into Harry’s outrage at his current position and coalesced in a less-than-conciliatory, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Malfoy?  Have you lost the sodding plot??”

“Tsk, tsk,” Malfoy reprimanded, as if Harry were a naughty child.  “Now, now, Potter.  You’ll want to consider a more _co-operative_ tone, if you please.  Discourtesy will not be tolerated.”

“ _DISCOURTESY??_ You’ve _abducted_ an Auror, are holding him against his will, and you are winging about my _manners_?   Piss off, you mad freaking wazzock.”

“You should never discount manners,” Malfoy instructed helpfully.  Then pulling his mouth into the familiar Malfoy sneer, he drawled, “Though I doubt a Muggle-raised half-blood like you could spot courtesy if it slapped you in the face.”

“Fuck you, arse wipe,” Harry spat.

Malfoy’s sneer turned blazing and he said harshly, “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue.” He then flicked his wand and muttered _oboedio,_ causing pain to stab through Harry’s ankle bindings, whirl up his spine before coalescing in Harry’s tongue so that it felt like it had been slashed in half and submerged in a caustic potion.

Caught unaware, Harry was unable to breathe.  His outraged complaint came out as the smallest choking sound.  His eyes teared and his mouth gaped wide as he tried to get his teeth as far away from his tongue as possible.

Malfoy smirked in satisfaction.  He took a deep breath and savored the rush of power he felt.  But, intending to condition Harry, not torture him, he ended the spell after less than a minute.  “Again,” he said pointedly, “I say you _will_ be courteous.  You will be polite.  And I make the rules here.  Understood?”

Eyes locked on this appalling new Malfoy, mouth wide open to avoid contact with his stinging tongue, Harry nodded minutely.

Malfoy sighed with exaggerated exasperation.  “I was certain you were raised by _Muggles_ , not by _wolves_.  I see, however, that we’ll have to start from scratch.  First lesson, Potter,” he enunciated very carefully, “it is not polite to leave your mouth hanging open.”

Harry cautiously shut his mouth around his sore tongue.

“Also,” continued Malfoy, in a teacher’s tone, “the bare minimum for an acceptably polite response must always include ‘yes sir’, ‘no sir’, ‘yes please’, or ‘no thank you.’  Am I understood?”

“Yeth,” Harry flinched before finishing, “thir.”

“Well done,” Malfoy praised.  “Now.  I have presents for you.  Aren’t you pleased?”

Wary.  Resentful. Harry nonetheless responded, “Yeth thir.”

Smug as the Kneazle who caught the Brownie, Malfoy set an emerald ring and silver arm cuff on the table.  “You should be honored, Potter.  I went to considerable effort to obtain these Black family heirlooms for you.” 

Harry couldn’t help the growl that rumbled in the back of his throat.

Tisking, Malfoy chided, “Now, now Potter.  That’s not very nice; is it?  I think you should be grateful of the effort I’ve gone to for you.”  Hearing no reply, Malfoy spoke as if to a toddler, “Pay attention, Potter.  This is where a polite boy must say ‘thank you.’”

Harry refused to answer.

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy said with a tinge of disappointment.  “Must we do this the hard way?”  After a small pause he incanted, “ _Oboedio_ ,” triggering the punishing pain to run again from Harry’s ankles up to pool in his tongue again.  The pain continued and Harry was helpless to do anything but endure. nbsp; Malfoy slipped the silver ring onto Harry’s right index finger and the arm band up onto his right bicep.  He cut his thumb and allowed several drops of blood to fall first onto the ring and secondly on the arm band, both of which then melted into Harry’s flesh and disappeared.

 _Finis,_ Malfoy whispered, terminating the punishment.  Harry fell limp.  Still holding Harry’s right arm, he caressed the disappeared heirlooms, causing Harry to twitch from pain.  “I’ve just done you a tremendous favor.”

Harry wanted to huff in disbelief, but couldn’t so much as bring air to his lungs.

Taking Harry’s silence as agreement, Malfoy continued, “You see?  With these gifts, you will find it impossible to disobey and, consequently, I will not need to punish you.  At least not as much as without.”  Malfoy leaned close to Potter and hissed, “Little that you deserve my benevolence.  You deserve all possible forms of punishment, but I am not a sadist.  I refuse to become a torturer, even for you.”

Malfoy smoothed Harry’s hair back, then seemed to think better of it and brushed whatever invisible filth there might be in Potter’s hair off of his hands.  Clasping his hands behind his back, Malfoy walked a tight circle around his prey and explained, “It’s simple self-interest on my part.  Luckily for you, these gifts will help us both.  The band was a child's bracelet designed to guarantee obedience on trifling lessons like proper manners, cleaning one’s plate and keeping magic secret from Muggles.  The ring was made for a spouse or lover and was intended to encourage, shall we say, compliance with more adult issues.  I’ve done a tad bit of tweaking for our purposes, but the exceptionally good news is that neither of them can be detected or removed by anyone who does not have Black blood.  Brilliant, isn’t it, Potter?”

Seeing Malfoy’s mad enthusiasm, Harry was frankly appalled.  Before he could think of a cheeky reply, however, something gently nudged Harry’s consciousness and he gave the easy reply:  “Yes, sir.”

“Brilliant.  Now we’re beyond all this… unpleasantness, let’s get to the point of this evening’s rendezvous.” 

Though Harry’s mind raced with all sorts of rude and rebellious thoughts, there was a strong parental influence in his head that curbed any reply.

Malfoy circled behind Harry to stand at the corner of the table.  He pulled the sheet off, revealing a dozen or so silver serving platters, all covered with silver domes.

Heady, savory aromas seeped out from under the covers, making Harry’s mouth water.  Harry blinked at the feast before him, wholly confused.   How could there be a point to this madness?  And if there was a point, what could it possibly have to do with a sumptuous feast??

“I can see you are full of questions,” Malfoy observed.  Mussing Harry’s hair, he advised, “Don’t you worry your messy little mop with the details, yeah?”

When the confused furrow on Harry’s brow only became more pronounced, he sighed heavily.  Then he explained, as if to a dullard, “Welcome to my home, Potter. I’m sure you think of it as yours, but you will find Grimmauld Place will not be controlled by mere legal documents.”  At Harry’s appalled expression, he chuckled and clarified, “I’m sure you don’t recognize it, but this is the familial security niche; a secret haven for times of peril or, in our case, uniquely cloistered affairs.  It only opens to those with Black blood, which is mine and not yours, might I remind you.  I wouldn’t share this space with you, but I’ve decided to further your education and this is the perfect location for your conditioning program.”

Harry was too busy taking in all the details of Malfoy’s monologue to react.

“Not having been raised by Muggles or wolves, myself,” he continued, “you will find that I can be a very gracious host.  This evening, for example, I’ve prepared an entire banquet just for you.”

Harry stared incredulously down the length of the table, imagining the huge quantity of food undoubtedly hidden under the sea of silver covers. Malfoy pushed Harry’s chair in further, and lifted the cover off the first platter with a flourish.  Harry stared dumbly at a family-sized platter of pot roast, potatoes and vegetables. 

Malfoy tapped the bindings at Harry’s wrists so that they released his hands.  He placed an overlarge fork and knife next to the platter, and advised, “You may begin your meal, Potter. I expect you to display proper courtesy and to finish every last bite.”

Harry’s stomach growled and part of him wanted to dig right in.  No matter how enticing the food might be, however, the suspect circumstances and vast quantities worried Harry.  He eyed the food warily and forced a polite inquiry past his strong disinclination to speak. “You, you want to feed me, sir?”

Amused at the dumbfounded expression on Potter's face, Malfoy drawled, “Obviously.” 

The parental influence in Harry would not allow him to directly refuse.“Yes, sir.I’ll do my best, sir.”His voice became strained as he pressed on, “It’s just... I don’t think I can eat ALL of this…I’m really not THAT hungry right now, sir.”

Malfoy gave that same sickly sweet smile and ran a hand along Harry’s neck, causing Harry to shiver. “Well done, Potter.I do believe you might be taught proper manners after all. As a reward for your efforts, I will help you with the minor issue of your appetite.” He brandished his wand, traced long figure eights – or were those infinity symbols?? – over Harry’s torso, and began chanting a low, repetitive Latin charm.“ _Infinitus appetitus infinitus appetitio infinitus vacua infinitus spatium non mutuus Desiderium.”_

Harry’s Latin still wasn’t the best, but with so many mentions of ‘ _infinitus’_ , he decided the wand movement had definitely been an infinity symbol.

Looking well pleased, Malfoy pulled out a small vial of bright blue potion.Holding it up for Harry to see, he explained, “Nothing to worry about Potter.This is a therapeutic potion every wizarding child is given to assure the absorption of healthful nutrients, just a little stronger.Now open up.”

Harry struggled to keep his mouth closed.

“Really, Potter?”Malfoy laughed.

Despite his best effort, Harry’s mouth popped open and he drank the surprisingly non-foul potion.Harry was further surprised that the potion provoked no horrible symptom.

Malfoy flicked a _tempus changus_ and watched the seconds tick past. He placed his hand gently on Harry’s right hand as he explained, “This combination takes a moment, but you should be feeling something…” Malfoy waited for the tempus to reach 35 seconds before finishing, “Now.”

“There’s no… What’s... oh blimey...” Harry protested, but stopped mid-sentence as a vacuous, clawing sensation rumbled around the cavernous hollow of his stomach. Harry gazed longingly at the food on the table, which was suddenly abnormally appetizing, the scents stimulating his vacuous hunger and calling forth a deluge of saliva.

Irresistible craving overpowered his ability to think.He was desperate to eat.Instinctively, however, Harry knew he should not move until Malfoy released his hand. Mouth watering, he whinged pathetically.

“You’d like to eat, wouldn’t you Harry?” Malfoy murmured in his ear.

Straining harder, Harry could only manage a breathy, “Yes, please sir.”

“You _need_ to eat, don’t you, Potter?”

Harry looked up to Malfoy with tears in his eyes.“Yes please, sir,” he begged.

Delighted, Malfoy let go of Harry’s hand and drawled, “As you wish, Potter.”

Harry lurched forward and shoveled in a huge bite of meat and potato.Chewing that first bite of juicy, meaty, deliciousness, all seemed right in the world.Every bite was better.There was pleasure in the chewing.He craved the taste; hungered to be filled.He couldn’t chew or swallow quickly enough.No matter how wonderful this bite was, the next bite would be better, surely.

And it was.Every bite was its own little island of heightened nirvana that led to the next.

Harry wasn’t aware of licking the gravy up as he finished the pot roast and moved on to a seafood platter.

When the next cover revealed a tourine of cream of potato soup, he didn’t hesitate to pick it up and drink it from the narrow end.And he certainly didn’t notice Malfoy’s lusty groans as he sucked and slurped the chunks of potato and long, soft portions of celery.

The food was delicious, perfectly prepared, all of his favorites.The only thing that could be better than the present mouth-watering bite would be to get to the next bite, the next dish, the next platter.He wanted it all; needed it.

Harry tore through six giant platters of food without thought or pause.Only then, when his stomach was impossibly distended with more food than he normally ate in a week, could he take so much as a moment to think.

He was vaguely aware of what he must look like, eating piggishly as he was.He hadn’t bothered to wipe the many smears of food from his face.He could feel cold, wet spots where spilled food must have soaked through his dress shirt, but he couldn’t have cared less. His swollen belly pressed painfully against the table, but he couldn’t bear to move even a centimeter away from his feast. His belt and trousers cut painfully under his bulging stomach, but he could not spare the few seconds it would take to unfasten them.

He continued to eat with no less urgency. As full as he was, he was still hungry.Incredibly, despite the fullness, his stomach still ached with need.His mouth still watered with desire for that one last penultimate taste that would be enough.

Somewhere, far beneath his current dreamy swirl of pleasure, Harry couldn’t believe this. He didn’t understand why he was here or what Malfoy wanted.However, no matter his doubts, he didn’t consider stopping to ask a question.Despite the increasingly painful stretching as his stomach continued bulging out further, he continued to gorge himself. He knew he should stop, but he _wanted_ to feed his bottomless hunger.Nothing else mattered.

Finally, when every last plate, bowl and platter had been scraped clean, a stunned Harry held one hand against the blown up balloon of his stomach looked around dazedly for more.It was then that he noticed Malfoy sitting next to him.Had he been there the whole time?

Not to be distracted by some pesky old school rival cum insane captor, Harry asks, “Is there more, sir?”

Malfoy stares at him with a mixture of astonished disgust and glee.“More?”

His craving still deep and clear and more powerful than any other thought, Harry nods and asks, “Perhaps some pudding, sir?”

While waiting hopefully for an answer, Harry Rubbed absently on the side of his belly and brought up a loud, deep belch.Muddled though he was, the startling noise made Harry acutely aware of what Malfoy had just witnessed.A hot blush rose up his neck to the roots of his hair.

Seeing Malfoy’s smirk, Harry looked from the scrapheap of empty dishes to his grubby double-bludger belly and became truly disgusted with himself.He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came away with a sticky mess. nbsp; A dozen concerns about his abysmal manners swam anxiously to Harry’s consciousness.He wanted to release his cruelly binding belt, but cringed at the impropriety.There were no napkins in sight; there was no way to make amends for his slovenly behavior.

Ducking his head in shame, Harry asked meekly, “May I have a napkin?”

Harry stole a peek at Malfoy, who was wearing a stern face.Unaccountably, Harry became more nervous and let out a high, painful hiccup that led to a rudely wet burp.Burning with shame, Harry whispered, “Excuse me, sir.”Then he repeated, “Please, sir, may I please have a napkin?”

Malfoy tisked.“A little late for that, isn’t it?Poor messy Potter, raised by wolves.What shall we do with you?Hm?”Malfoy pulled his face into an expression of disgust and poked Harry’s sticky chin with a finger.He wiped the finger on the side of Harry’s stomach, pressing hard.“Look at you,” he said, gesturing to Harry’s inexcusably food stained shirt, buttons straining to contain his distended belly.

Harry couldn’t help but look down obediently, not knowing what to say.

“I suppose you expect me to clean you up, you little heathen?”

“It would be nice,” Harry murmured, “but I don’t expect it, sir.”

“Too right.You don’t deserve my help,” said Malfoy haughtily.“But we can’t have the Black Heir wandering about in your state.It would be disgraceful.”With that, Malfoy performed several cleaning charms and a gratuitous dysintentional hex.

Looking down at his newly cleaned shirt, Harry heaved a sigh of relief that left his buttons straining harder over his larger, relaxed belly. Oh.

Malfoy didn’t say anything more.

After entirely too long, Harry pulled himself together enough to ask, “So. So now what, Malfoy… sir?”

“Now nothing, Golden Boy. It's past your bedtime, so toddle off to bed.” Malfoy smirked and gestured up stairs which appeared in a far corner.

Harry couldn’t believe he was being released.“Just like that?”

Enjoying the moment, Malfoy repeated, “Bedtime, Potter.Off you go.”

Harry asked, “Just like that, sir?I'm free to go?”

“Poor befuddled Potter,” murmured Malfoy as he helped Harry stagger to his feet.“Of course you are free to go to bed.It’s bedtime, isn’t it?”

Indeed, Harry found he was far too tired to argue.“Yes, sir,” he muttered, thinking that only a lunatic would set him free and not expect to be caught.He didn’t think much else, as it took all his remaining energy to balance his new girth and haul it up the stairs.

Malfoy waived to him as he rounded the corner on the stairs, calling a sarcastic, “Sleep tight, Potter dear.”

Gasping for breath, Harry could not reply.Instead, he continued stumbling up to his bedroom.Nearly asleep by the time he reached his goal, Harry rolled onto his bed, thought fleetingly of the absurd report he would need to submit in the morning, and fell into unconsciousness.


	3. DAY TWO – YOU AGAIN?

September 16, 2001

 

An exigent trip to the loo dragged Harry out of bed before sunrise the next day. He suffered a miserable bout of Montezuma's Revenge. This was no mere voiding, Harry thought, this was a full-blown evacuation of military proportions. It left him cold and shaky and as weak as a kitten.

In the shower later, Harry thought back to the Indian take out he had eaten the night before and swore off that particular restaurant. Too bad, really. It had been one of his favorites. But he’d not risk stomach complications like this morning for love, money or the best Mango-Chile-Lime Lassi ever.

By the time he was buckling his belt over his baggy trousers, he was absolutely ravenous. He reckoned his appetite was only natural after being so completely emptied. Luckily, he’d gotten up so early in the first place that he had plenty of time for a hearty full English at his favorite tavern in Camden Town. Despite the tavern’s famously generous portions, Harry was still hungry after breakfast, so he stopped at the café round the corner from the Leaky Cauldron, where he picked up a triple mocha latte and 2 chocolate croissants.

…

By the time Harry walked up the steps to Grimmauld Place that night, he was convinced he had just experienced the most tiresome, maddening day of his life.

He’d been groggy all day; like he’d never quite woken up. He’d been late to class, slow with his answers and even slower in practical training. His stomach had been sour and crampy from this morning’s run through the wringer, but he’d still been ravenous and kept eating in hopes it might give him some energy. All to no avail, as his giant lunch had made him nauseous on top of feeling groggy. The whole groggy, wrung out, nauseous combo had him losing all four of his dueling matches this afternoon, something that had never happened before. Instructor Holmes kept him after class to give him tips on shield charms he’d known for years. Merlin, he’d taught those blasted shields to the D.A.! Then, because living though it once hadn’t been sufficient, Hermione ran into them on the way out of the building and Ron just had to give her a play-by-play of today’s worst moments. Which of course, Hermione took far too seriously, looking like she might cry on his behalf and saying ‘Oh, Harry’ with so much sympathy he wanted to slap her.

Argh.

And there was his stomach growling again. His mouth watered at the smell of the three pizzas he’d just picked up at Pizza Express. They were running a 3 for 1 special that was too good to pass by, so he’d have leftovers. He shifted the boxes so that he could unlock the front door. After hanging up his robe, he headed straight for the kitchen.

…

Harry jerked his head up and found himself again bound to a chair in the dim, cluttered old parlor.

Like waking up from a dream, Harry remembered everything: last night, this morning, his whole groggy day of overindulgence and lassitude. He remembered his last waking thought as he fell asleep last night intending to report Malfoy’s bizarre activities today. Then he thought ruefully of his cluelessness and easy explanations for his fatigue and hunger all day. Stomach growling, he remembered how eager he had been to return to the sanctuary of Grimauld Place.

Icy dread trickled down his back as he realized that Grimauld Place was no longer his private sanctuary; it was now Malfoy's lair.

Malfoy strolled in just then, humming the Hogwarts Victory Song.

Harry didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid. Mustering something close to bravado, Harry looked Malfoy in the eye and asked casually, “You again?”

He would have felt pretty confident, if he hadn’t felt compelled to add, “‘sir?’’ And then forced to grit out, “I apologize, sir. G-good to see you, sir.”

Shite. The compliance thing. The urges. The mindless, endless, animalistic eating. He was fucked. Bent over. Tied down and buggered by the mob.

Malfoy sat down opposite Harry and watched as the revelations of Harry’s predicament unfurled for him. As Harry’s expression and posture crumpled, Malfoy’s smirk grew into a full-fledged Cheshire Cat grin.

“Good to see you so eager for this evening’s session. What have you brought to share?”

Harry glanced sideways and was startled to see his three Pizza Express boxes stacked on the table. “Pizza, sir.”

Malfoy arched a wicked eyebrow. “Three pizzas? I’m delighted to see you’ve come prepared to overindulge.” nbsp

Harry’s stomach growled in agreement and he felt his face burn with embarrassment.

Malfoy chuckled and swung Harry’s chair to face the table. Opening the first pizza box, he asked, “Is poor wee Potter hungry?”

Determined not to give Malfoy the satisfaction, Harry forced himself past his parental control and shrugged. His stomach, however, did not agree. The close proximity of hot, cheesy, meaty, deliciously garlic smelling pizza made his stomach pinch and grumble greedily.

Malfoy simply smiled. “Really?” he asked, placing a slice on a plate and wafting it under Harry's nose. “Poor Potter, we'll never build up that puny frame of yours with that attitude. Ah, well, no worries. We can take care of that easily enough.” He pulled out his wand, incanted infinitus and handed Harry a vial of the same blue potion from the night before.

That was his last rational thought as he was swept up in waves of needy hunger. His mouth watered and his stomach became a sucking, vacuous cavern demanding to be filled. He breathed the pizza aroma in deeply and he whimpered softly.

“Ready for dinner?” Malfoy queried.

Eager to please, Harry responded politely, “Yes, please, sir.”

“Good boy,” Malfoy praised, “Here you go.”

Harry nearly wept as he grabbed the first bite and sank his teeth into it. Merlin, there was nothing quite like hot, chewy garbage pizza with so many kinds of meat that they blended together. Just like the night before, the first bite of spicy, meaty satisfaction was so intense that it was everything in that moment. Nothing mattered but enjoying, chewing, swallowing that bite and moving on to the next. Every bite was better because it built on the last. Every bite swallowed did just that little bit more to appease his bottomless desire.

Harry was pleased to be given a frosty mug of Butterbeer between pizzas, finding the cool liquid helped to settle his food. He could not drink it fast enough, though, and felt the Butterbeer splashing down his chin and onto his shirt. Vaguely aware, but not at all bothered by the mess he was surely making, Harry raced ahead. He enjoyed the changing tastes as he moved from one pizza to the next. After his third Butterbeer, he noticed his stomach felt less hollow, but was nowhere near satisfied.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy lounging in the leather chair and conducting the changes of courses with his wand, but he couldn’t have cared less. He dug eagerly into the giant bowl of treacle pudding Malfoy provided, slurping great amounts off of what had to be a serving spoon. The bowl was so big it seemed endless. Experiencing spoonful after blissful spoonful, he memorized every facet of the experience. He sobbed in disappointment when, all too soon, he scraped the bowl clean.

When Malfoy exchanged the pudding bowl for a tray of tarts, he thought to unbuckle his belt because the buckle was cutting under his roundly bloated belly. But the belt was too tight for quick release, so when the tarts appeared he ignored the pain in favor of pursuing the bliss of his binge. He ate his way through so many plates of tarts and cakes and biscuits that the pleasure of eating them spiraled to dizzying heights. He was amazingly full and pleased by the memory of each and every bit he had eaten. And yet still wanted more.

Malfoy placed huge ice cream sundae at his place. The crystal bowl was not very tall, but nearly two feet wide and held layer upon layer of many flavored scoops of ice cream alternating with sauces and chewy chocolate and fruity treats. Like the pudding bowl, it seemed like it might go on forever when he began. He spooned mindlessly through it, spoonful after cold delicious smooth chewy wonderful spoonful. He went from amazingly full to fuller still. Packed solid, the only place to go was outward, and so his stomach stretched further than it had the night before. As his stomach expanded, leaning forward became too painful, but he couldn’t stop. He leaned back in his chair, brought his bowl up to rest against his chest and worked doggedly to eat every bite. Dulled by exhaustion and overstimulation, he finished as if in slow motion. Slow, fully-satisfied motion.

Harry was nearly asleep when Draco levitated the heavy crystal bowl away. He struggled to rouse himself with little success. For the moment, he was too full, too warm, too heavy to think. He would just close his eyes for a minute.

Crack! Harry jumped awake to the sound of Malfoy’s wand being rapped on the table. More disturbing than the sound, however, Harry’s compulsive forces slapped him to attention. He groaned and burped as he tried to sit up and set himself to rights. He was too swollen and groggy and sticky for the effort to achieve anything. After a minute or two of struggle, he gave up, half-slumped and unable to look Malfoy in the face.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” asked Malfoy.

“Yes, sir,” Harry responded meekly.

“Well, I hope it was worth it. Look at you. You are a disgrace,” Malfoy sneered as if Potter’s indulgence had been a matter of choice. “We can’t have you walking around smearing food all over, can we?” Malfoy said as he performed cleaning spells and his next minor disintentional hex.

“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” mumbled Harry.

“You are welcome,” Malfoy allowed. “As I told you before, I’m an excellent host. But, look here,” he said as he pulled on the straining bottom on Harry’s shirt. He popped it open and Harry’s belly pressed forward.

Trying to sit up a bit, Harry only succeeded in dislodging an expansive burp. “Excuse me, sir.”

Caught without words, Draco only said, “huh,” as he proceeded to undo five more buttons, allowing Harry’s distended stomach to bulge freely. “Oh dear,” he tutted, in mock reprimand. Running his hands across the round surface of exposed skin, Draco marveled, “Look how round you have grown.”

Harry whimpered and squirmed, bringing Draco’s attention to another growth. He slid one hand down Harry’s stomach, under the overhang and along the narrow bulge below, inspiring Harry to squeak.

“Very interesting,” Malfoy observed, stepping back slowly as if he was unaffected. Sighing, he said, “That will be all Potter. You should go to bed now.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Harry stammered. “Go to bed, sir. I am sorry, sir.” Harry felt very real shame and not an ounce of the indignation he should have felt for having the situation forced upon him.

Malfoy said no more, but stood silently watching as Harry struggled to move. He was clumsy with bulk and exhaustion as he stumbled across the room. Climbing up the stairs put such strain on his abdominal muscles that he was sure he would vomit. Perhaps he would have, but his protective charms would not allow it.

Head swimming, heart racing and swollen body aching with exhaustion by the time he reached his room, he tried to scheme his escape. Surely he would know something terribly wrong was happening. How could he miss it when he had eaten half of his body weight in one sitting? And, yes, he could be dim sometimes, but if he didn’t notice, Hermione would. He fell asleep hoping to be noticed by the smartest witch of her age…


	4. DAY SIX – THE FRIDAY NIGHT GROOVE

September 21, 2001

 

It was the sixth time Harry had woken abruptly, bound to the dining chair in the Grimauld Security Niche.  As he had been for the past several days, Draco Malfoy sat opposite him in a leather chair, legs crossed and sipping tea.  But for the wild eyes and manic smile, he looked every bit the lord of the manor.   
  
The palpable juxtaposition of power and insanity set off all of Harry’s alarms, both personally and as an Auror.  Against his every instinct, however, he smiled back blandly.  Harry was beginning to learn to work within his confines.  He found, quite by accident, that Malfoy gave him much more leeway if he could feign a pleasant demeanor.  
  
Glancing at Malfoy’s tea, he inquired, “Earl Grey, I presume?”  
  
Malfoy nodded an acknowledgment, but said, “Very nearly, Potter.  Lady Gray, actually.  I prefer the citrusy undertones.”  
  
“Ah,” Harry continued as if he were not Malfoy’s bound victim.  “How was your day, Malfoy?”  
  
Malfoy relaxed slightly.  “Lovely, actually.  More to the point:  how was your day, Potter?”  
  
Harry hesitated.  He knew Malfoy got his jollies hearing about the daytime effects of his nightly efforts.  On the other hand, Harry hoped to learn valuable information in return.  A few nights ago, when Harry admitted how puzzled he was by his daytime ignorance of their nighttime activities, Malfoy had boasted that he had tied the Black Heirlooms into some sort of localized memory charm.  Harry had initially hoped that, despite his memory charmed days, he would at least suspect missing memories when his raging a.m. loo runs and bottomless appetite continued.  No such luck.  Apparently, he was an amazing rationalizer.  Over the past week, he’d attributed his morning misery to bad Chinese, bad Tai, bad pizza and a string of really bad luck.  Despite a niggling suspicion he might have caught some odd flu, he’d only made a Healer appointment at Kingsley’s insistence.  Awesome Auror instincts, he thought.  
  
Exposing himself in hopes Malfoy might let something else slip didn’t feel like a fair exchange, but it was all he had to work with.   Steeling himself, Harry said dryly, “Another banner day, thanks.  Woke up sick again, as usual.  But I did quite enjoy breakfast at the downtown McDonald’s.  I ran a little taste test of their breakfast sandwiches and decided that bacon-egg-and-cheese-on-a-biscuit is my favorite.”  
  
“Good to know.  I’ll have to try one the very next time I dine at a McDonald’s,” was the sarcastic reply.  “Anything interesting at the Ministry?”  
  
Harry nearly rolled his eyes at Malfoy’s transparent curiosity.  “Mm-hm.  Two things.  The funny thing was that I had an inexplicable difficulty sorting out my words today; it seemed my grammar was jumbled.  Inconvenient, that.  No one could understand me; not even my wand.  Even my nonverbal spells were dodgy.  I’m sure that first thing led to the second thing.  You will be happy to know I had a lovely tea time chat with Minister Kingsley.  He’s quite concerned about my odd behavior this week.  He repeated all of the detection and scanning spells Dawlish did yesterday and scheduled me to see a specialist at St. Mungo’s first thing Monday morning.”  
  
Harry watched Malfoy carefully, hoping to see some reaction to the upcoming healer examination.  Unfortunately, Malfoy’s smug smile was not what he had been hoping to see.  
  
“Of course,” said Malfoy.  “The Ministry wouldn’t neglect the care and feeding of their Golden Boy, the Silver Savior, Platinum Pet, would they?  I’m quite looking forward to the Healer’s diagnosis.  You’ll have to let me know.”  
  
“Yes, sir.  Of course.”  Shite.  Sometimes Harry wished he had Hermione’s encyclopedic brain.  His subtle efforts were getting him nowhere.  Screw subtle.  “I am wondering, sir, if you knew what might have been causing my communications problems this week?”  
  
“Very good Potter.  It only took you five days to ask me.  You are not the horrific dullard the _Prophet_ describes, are you?  Just a minor dullard, really,”  said Malfoy, sounding terribly self-satisfied.  “You have discovered my Dysintentional Hexes.  You will notice, I’m sure that I apply a new hex every night after cleaning you up.  There is a whole world of hexes beyond jelly-legs and bat-bogey.  It’s no wonder Hogwarts does not offer classes in Hexes, or the school would surrender to complete mayhem.  The beauty of hex construction, as opposed to charms, is that they are infinitely flexible if you are willing to compromise a little here or there.  Did you know, for example, that by giving up long-term effect, a temporary hex can be re-worked to be entirely undetectable?  It’s a fascinating exchange.  But, alas, a topic for another time.  It is, I believe, dinner time, is it not?”  
  
Harry held back the 'nice monologue' comment, and replied instead, “Yes, sir.” He took the blue vial Malfoy handed him and tried to memorize what he’d just learned about Malfoy’s temporary, undetectable hexes.   It didn't seem all that helpful at first blush.  By the time Malfoy had incanted the _Infinitus_ charm – or was it a hex? -- and set out the huge piles of fish and chips from Harry’s take out bags, Harry had lost all ability to think.  
  
 **- <¤>-**  
  
Draco walked around Potter, appraising the Boy Who Lived To Eat as he dug in to the mound of fried food.  Odd though it was, the Muggle food certainly smelled appetizing.  Curious, Draco extracted a small slice of fried potato to taste.  Potter, of course, was already too engrossed in his food orgy to notice.  Eating the potato, he was pleasantly surprised by the crispy, soft, salty, sweet little nugget.  Interesting.  
  
On one level, the Potter Plot was turning out to be an intriguing magical experiment.  His research and experimentation with temporary undetectable hexes would be beneficial far beyond the Plot.   Charms were much more commonly taught and used.  Draco had vast repertoire of Hexes he knew by rote, but this was the first time he had studied Hex theory.  Where charms utilized neutral magic, Hexes were comprised of a balance of light and dark magic.  He was coming to find that he could accomplish the same ends as most charms with re-worked Hexes.   
  
What he hadn’t told Potter was that the same sacrifices in strength and duration that made a hex undetectable also lowered the Class severity.  Every spell he used on Potter and, indeed, in connection with the entire Potter Plot, was a Hex he had re-designed to be undetectable, untraceable and C-Class.  Draco hadn’t had so much fun in ages.  
  
More importantly, the Plot was working.  Potter was piggish putty in his hands.  Pliable piggish putty.  Soon to be podgy, pliable, piggish putty.  Potter was pathetic, he thought giddily.  
  
Look at him eating that Muggle slop two-handed.   He was eating most of the fish pieces in two inhumanly large bites, barely swallowing before jamming in potatoes two or three at a time.  He seemed to be eating faster now than at the start.  
  
He was glad he’d charmed that Butterbeer mug to be self-refilling, because Potter sucked down most of one every time he picked it up.  Well, he thought disdainfully, most of a mug if you didn’t subtract for the leakage down Potter’s chin and everywhere else.  What a slob.   
  
He even sounded a like a pig.  He chomped and slurped and smacked his lips.  He crowded his breathing into the non-existent pauses in eating, making his breath rush in and whuffle out in a decidedly snort-like sound.  
  
Fried Muggle food nearly gone, Draco readied the platter of Pigs in Blankets to take its place.  He waited a few seconds after Potter finished chewing, knowing he would start mewling for more.  There he was.  Merlin, he loved it when Potter mewled for more.  The Epic Hero, begging to him.  Now that was classic.  
  
Potter took to the strangely wrapped little sausages quickly, taking three in each hand and popping them in his mouth in rotation as soon as he chewed and swallowed.  The man was a machine.  
  
Potter’s piggish eating certainly showed.  Draco shuddered.  Potter’s eating showed in that disgusting abstract splatter painting sort of way every night.  Draco hoped Potter’s piggish habits might be carrying over to days, too, because he had turned up with a bright red stain on his shirt today.  
  
Walking to his other side, Draco examined his test subject more closely.  Potter’s stomach was about a quarter of the way through its dramatic transformation from flat to bludger-sized.  As mesmerizing as his expansion was, it made his actual weight gain was hard to assess at this early stage.  Potter was so skeletal to start that Draco supposed the first few pounds would simply fill in the cracks.  But he did think he could see  signs of increase.  Potter’s hollow cheeks looked to be filling in, his button down shirt was perhaps more form-fitting across the chest than it had been at the beginning of the week.  The one thing Draco was certain about was the soft layer of flesh bulging out above Potter’s belt on both sides.  That was definitely new.  And soft.  And bulging.  
  
Gah.  
  
Malfoy broke away from watching stupid Potter.  Summoning a fresh cup of tea, he sat down and determined to think less about stupid mesmerizing Potter and more about furthering the Dastardly Plot.  His thoughts turned to making sure that, once again, tonight’s feeding was another bit larger than the night before.  
  
 *******  
  
Much later, after Harry had unthinkingly inhaled every last crumb, drop and sticky remnant of the evening’s banquet, he collapsed back in his chair in a stupor.  He tried without success to catch his breath, but could only pant shallowly because any deeper breath was impossible.   
  
When his stomach began to churn, he moved his hands gently to two and ten o’clock on his overinflated stomach.  But, oh, that made it worse.  A long, relieving belch forced it’s way out and, although the little parental units in his head forced him to apologize, he was glad.  
  
His stupor began to fade and his first real thought was how comfortable he was getting with this whole bizarre state of affairs.  He knew he was a mess, was bursting out of his clothes and could barely move.  His belt cut into his stomach like a mother fucker.   
  
Malfoy would soon point these things out, shame him and force him to apologize.  But damned if he hadn’t just eaten an amazingly awesome meal and enjoyed the ridiculous levels of satisfaction.  He’d enjoy that thought until Malfoy started making a pest of himself.


	5. Day Seven  -- LOOK WHAT THE KNEAZEL DRAGGED IN

September 22, 2001

 

Harry blinked in bleary confusion, once again bound to his usual seat.  He felt sure it was the beginning of the evening, but he was already half stuffed.  Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.  Glancing down, the sight of his Weird Sisters’ shirt stretched over his bulging belly and sporting a thumb-sized hole brought back every intolerable detail of his afternoon at the Burrow.  
  
The mere thought of Molly’s delicious cooking made his stomach growl eagerly.  Harry clapped his greedy little gut.  ”You don’t give a whit about pesky little details like paranoid so-called friends or mad nightly abductions, do you, mate?  You’re so keen to eat lately that you don’t care about circumstance, yeah?”   
  
Malfoy had entered silently in the middle of Harry’s monologue.  Potter was more bedraggled than ever, chin dark with stubble, spasmodic hair needing a cut and raggedy Muggle clothes.  Set off against his gangly limbs, Potter’s bulging middle looked virtually pregnant.  Malfoy was pleased to see all go according to plan. He was unprepared, however, for Potter’s dissociative discussion with his apparently estranged stomach.  
  
At the faint sound of a stomach grumble, Potter continued to scold his stomach, “Stand down soldier.  You made quite the pig of us at the Burrow.  As if I wasn’t a dangerous freak already, now you want me to be a dangerous, freakish pig?”   
  
Potter’s stomach sounded a rolling grumble that made Potter bark a laugh and say, “Undaunted, are you old man?  Well, good for you.  I suppose one of us should be happy.”  
  
Malfoy took that moment to clear his voice.  
  
Mortified to be caught having a chat with his stomach, Harry laughed a little hysterically.  ”Mal-” he squeaked, “Malfoy, sir.  Good, erm, good evening.”  
  
Malfoy looked equal parts revolted and amused.  His expression flickered as if he was trying to decide whether to laugh at the ridiculousness or mock Harry’s insanity.  Which Harry thought was a kettle and cauldron situation if ever there was.  
  
Finally, Malfoy’s face reverted to his usual sneer and he drawled, “My, my, my.  Look what the Kneazle dragged in.   I have to give it to you, Potter, you clean up so very nicely.  All you need is a relaxing day off and your Sunday best, and you look like...  utter dragon dung.  Please tell me you didn’t go out in public looking like this, did you?  The lowest Knockturn vagrant wouldn’t go out in rags like yours.  Don’t you know any mending spells?  More to the point, what is wrong with your hair?  Are you breeding doxies in there?”  
  
Wanting to avoid enquiry about his belly chat, Harry latched on to Malfoy’s last complaint, “Sorry sir, I ran out of conditioner.”  
  
Malfoy looked pained.  ”Conditioner?  Lost your brush and fixed your hair with a whirlwind charm, more like.”  He walked around Harry and pulled at the frayed edge of his shirt collar.  ”Have you no shame?  Grooming is not optional Potter; you must purchase a respectable wizarding wardrobe.  Otherwise people won’t see past their poor orphaned savior to notice the burgeoning, bumbling, foolish new you.”   He yanked at the hole by the seam and ripped a strip off his shirt.  ”Is that understood?”  
  
Too uncomfortable with Malfoy’s criticism to respond to the crack about wanting people to notice his changes, Harry responded obediently, “Yes, sir.  Buy a decent wizarding wardrobe, sir.”  
  
“Immediately,” Malfoy growled.   
  
Honestly curious, Harry asked, “How will I remember?”  
  
Malfoy grinned.  “Good thing you are such a slob.  I’ll just hex you to do the opposite of your normal inclinations.”  
  
“Very funny,” Harry muttered.  Then he shivered as Malfoy leaned over his shoulder and ran his fingertips from Harry’s sides around the round bulge of his full stomach.   “Eep.”  
  
“Potty, Potty, Potty,” he whispered into Harry’s ear.  He kept his hands on Harry’s belly, kneading the soft bulge.  “You have been naughty today, haven’t you.  I think you require discipline.”  
  
“N-naughty, sir?  How could I be naughty when I don’t know any of this during the day?”  
  
Malfoy sighed.  “Poor befuddled Potty.  It really is quite sad how clueless you are...  And it’s so obvious that you have been wayward.”  Standing and walking to face Harry, Malfoy became stern.  “I do hope you haven’t spoiled your appetite.”  
  
Harry gulped.  Tonight’s discussion had gone far too far into unfamiliar territory.  Every other night, Malfoy had moved directly to the feeding portion of the evening.  Harry would have expected the blue potion and Infinitus spell at this point.  And, yet, it looked like Malfoy was getting ready for a nice long dressing down.  “Wha--what, sir?”  
  
“Don’t try the innocent act,” scorned Malfoy.  He placed a hand on his chest and asked, “Who you?  Yes, you Potter.    Just look at yourself.  You’ve obviously overindulged and spoiled your appetite.  Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”  
  
“I, erm, no sir.”  
  
“We will have to do something to remedy your misbehavior, will we not?”  
  
“Uh.  Yes, sir?”  
  
“Yes indeed.  Fortunately for you, I am prepared for all eventualities.”  Malfoy smirked as he produced a bright purple potion flask from his breast pocket and informed, “You will take this potion without complaint.  It will speed your digestion and renew your appetite.”   
  
Harry looked at the purple vial with trepidation.  “But I--” he started.  The parental influence won easily because he had, after all, eaten far too much this afternoon.  He sighed, mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and downed the potion.  
  
“There’s a good boy,” Malfoy said in tones usually reserved for babies and puppies.  “This potion will work wonders.  Unfortunately, you must wait a half hour until you may begin.”  He proceeded to make himself comfortable in his upholstered chair.  
  
Harry squirmed.  With his hands and ankles still bound to the straight backed chair, he could not shift effectively.  Moreover, his formerly favorite jeans were too tight, binding not just his waist, but also his crotch and thighs.  He wriggled a little more, but, if anything, his center seam was cinched tighter than ever.  He couldn’t help letting out a little groan.  
  
Malfoy looked suggestively at Harry’s crotch.  “Is this exciting you?”  
  
Harry realized with horror that his cock was half-hard.  
  
“Lovely!  This is exciting you, isn’t it, Potty,” he snickered.   
  
Harry clamped his mouth shut and looked down.   
  
Malfoy laughed and laughed.  Finally catching his breath, he chuckled, “That’s just brilliant.  You’ve made my day.”  After he poured a fresh cup of tea, he said, “So.  Do tell me, Potter.  How was your day?  Did you frolic with your overpopulated flock of ginger flamingos?”  
  
Harry stayed silent.  
  
“Don’t pout, Potter.  That’s no fun,” Malfoy said petulantly.  “Hmm.  I know.  Why don’t we play a little game to pass the time?” asked Malfoy.  
  
Harry’s parental units did not allow him to say a single one of the many nasty things that came to mind.  “What kind of game?” he asked instead.  
  
Malfoy shrugged.  “Nothing complicated.  Just a little tit for tat.  Quid pro quo.  You answer a question for me and I’ll answer one for you.  Simple.”  
  
Harry’s stomach burned.  He was starting to sweat.  He tried to concentrate.  “How do I know you will really answer my questions?”  
  
“You will just have to take my word for it.”  Malfoy smiled wickedly.  “Of course I will.  Why wouldn’t I?  It’s not like you will remember anything in the morning.  I think the harder question is whether you will answer my questions.”  
  
Harry didn’t like the sound of that.  
  
“Come on, Potty.  Why won’t you play?  Scared?”  
  
Knowledge is power, Harry reminded himself.  “You wish.  I’ll play.”  
  
“Oh good,” Malfoy said brightly.  “Me first.  How was your visit to that ruddy rodent’s den?”  
  
Harry glared at the predictable insult.  “My afternoon at the Burrow was ok.”  Manners compelled him to elaborate, “It was good...  and bad.” At Malfoy’s highly arched brow, he continued reluctantly, “I did go to the Burrow for Sunday dinner, which was, er, delicious as always and I got to spend time with Ron and Hermione.  But it wasn’t...  entirely pleasant.”  
  
“Explain,”  Malfoy directed.  
  
Harry’s ears went pink just thinking about it.  ”That’s a second question.  It’s my turn.”  
  
“Oh, alright.  Go ahead.”  
  
Harry forgot all of his brilliant strategic questions and shot straight to the core.  “Why are you doing this?”  
  
Ignoring the sincerity of Harry’s question, Malfoy quipped, “Because I can.  My turn.  What of this unpleasantness at the Burrow?  I want all the details.”  
  
This was stupid.  “Nothing much,” he fidgeted uneasily.  “It’s just that everyone was talking about my weird week.  You know,” his stomach made a wet roiling noise as if to punctuate.  “My getting sick every morning, my various difficulties with speech, my, er, increased appetite.  Hermione was really concerned and had all sorts of complicated theories.  Ron laughed it off and told people not to worry.”  
  
“Continue,” Malfoy ordered.  
  
“My turn,” Harry rebelled.  At Malfoy’s nod, he asked, “Why aren’t you concerned that St. Mungo’s will discover what you are doing to me?”  
  
“Because, you imbecile, unlike you, I am clever.  I have mentioned the familial blood wards and untraceable hexes, haven’t I?  Beyond that, I’ve done my homework.  I’m quite sure your healer will find a reasonable medical explanation for each and every one of your symptoms.”  
  
Godrick, Harry felt lightheaded.  This is what it would be like to have Hermione for an adversary.  
  
“Tell me about your conversations with the Weasles,” Malfoy ordered.  “All of them.”  
  
Cheater, thought Harry, resentfully, but he had to answer. “Hermione was just being thorough, but some of her theories were sort of, uh, fatal.  Mrs. Weasley got right fussed at the idea that I might have some contagious fatal syndrome.”   
  
Harry tried to hide his hurt feelings by speeding up and becoming sarcastic.  “Always the mate, George told her not to worry.  No worries, mum, he said.  The Weasleys should be grateful to risk their lives again for the Boy Who Lived.  It’s such an honor, after all, life would not be worth living without Harry Potter Death Threat Season every Spring.”   
  
Harry’s eyes went dull and he continued in monotone, “George said there are enough Weasleys that they shouldn’t begrudge me another sibling sacrifice.   Nobody had anything to say to that.  Hermione or Ron might have done, but they were off having,” Harry put up air quotes, “’private time’.  I was relieved when Fleur jumped in and told George not to be silly.  In my defense, she reminded everyone that I am just a stupid English school boy eating too much take-out and making myself sick.  Ginny pretty much agreed that I’m probably making it all up to get attention.   By the time we sat down to eat, the conversation had narrowed down to how much I should or shouldn’t be eating and whether my tight jeans are sexy or just indecent.  Everyone was staring and it made me nervous.  It didn’t help that I was stammering so badly that I couldn’t possibly explain myself.  I think I must have just put my head down to eat and tuned them out.”   
  
Harry paused, trying to remember what happened beyond the fog of his feeding frenzy.  He squirmed, uncomfortably aware of how tight his jeans really were.  He didn’t want to finish his tale, but felt forced to continue, “I wasn’t paying attention to much until pudding.  I couldn’t help notice the screeching laughter at that point.  Everyone was laughing, erm, because I popped the button on my jeans.  And, and I think the Weasleys may never stop laughing.”  
  
Not wanting to distract Potter from his confession, Malfoy took in every tantalizing detail in silence.  There was so much to mock; so many details to follow up.  And yet, one fact left him absolutely breathless.  ““You actually burst out of your trousers?”  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
“You are required to answer verbally, Potter.”  
  
Harry wished he could summon his invisibility cloak.  Pushed by the parental choir, however, he whispered, “Yes, sir.”  
  
“Show me.”  
  
His eyes popped as wide as a Ghoul caught in a Lumos spell.  “Excuse me, sir?”  
  
“You heard me,” Draco said impatiently.  “Show me where the button popped off your trousers.”  
  
Harry felt heat wash over his face as he processed that.   “Oh.”  He looked down and waived his bound hands generally to his waist.  “Above the zip.”  
  
“Really…” Malfoy drawled.  He reached out, pulled up Harry’s t-shirt and found that he needed to lift a handful of flesh to reveal the waistband of his jeans.  With his other hand, he pulled on the corner of the jeans with the rip in it.  “This?” he sounded strained.  
Harry tensed his abdominals in a futile attempt to hold in the results of his latest binge.  Then his stomach made a string of odd sloshing sounds and began a wavy morph.  It reminded him of polyjuice, but instead of reverting to himself, his bulging full stomach deflated while his soft new spare tire became a little thicker.  
  
Malfoy stepped back when Harry’s stomach morphed and Harry thought he heard Malfoy catch his breath.  He looked up with wide eyes.  “What just happened?”  
  
“Good question, Potter.  Isn’t this game fun?  That was tonight’s digestive potion in action.  We wouldn’t want to take time out for one of your long excursions to the loo, would we?  But all that food must go somewhere.  This potion enables your metabolism to transform your food directly to flesh.”  Looking down again, he flicked his wand to pull Harry’s shirt down, “That’s... “ Malfoy cleared his throat before drawling, “That’s exactly the shameful result you should expect when you eat piggishly like that in public, Potter.”  He grinned evilly.  “Get used to it.  Piggy Potter is the new you.”  
  
Didn’t he know it, thought Harry as his stomach rumbled hungrily.  “Yes, sir.”  Godrick help him, he needed to escape Malfoy’s trap.  But right now, he was hungry and getting hungrier.  
  
For Harry, the next few minutes went by in a fuzzy blur of want.  He tried to pay attention to the conversation, but nothing made much sense and he might have said anything.  Whatever the purple potion was, it made him dizzy and dry as if he hadn’t had a thing to eat or drink for a week.  He tried not to think about it, but then he became convinced that he truly was about to die of hunger.  Sod Malfoy’s game.  Sod his pride.  He begged Malfoy for compassion.  Begged for something to tide him over; just a small something please.  
  
He was practically sobbing by the time Malfoy presented him with his first course.  He was actually weeping by the time Malfoy released him from his bindings and permitted him to begin.  
  
When, finally, he dug in to a heavenly mushroom and onion quiche, he was relieved, thrilled, enraptured in the experience.  Weeks later, Harry recognized this as the moment when the feedings ceased being punishment and became the reward for putting up with Malfoy.


	6. Day Eight -- Harry's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Monday

September 23, 2001

 

For the first time in this part-time prisoner madness, Harry did not blearily become aware of his confinement in Malfoy’s perverse salon.  
  
No.  When Harry woke on Monday night bound in his usual chair, he knew instantly where he was, who held him in this temporary prison, what games would soon be played, and that his situation had become infinitely worse and more permanent during the events of his last waking day.  
  
He kept his eyes closed to delay Malfoy’s humiliation parade.  He tried to calm himself but had no luck.  He thought madly, _Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly_.  _Ha.  Malfoy’s an incompetent spider, at least.  The spider shouldn’t feed the fly.  You should eat the fly, Malfoy, you arse.  Shite.  Shut up, Harry, that’s not helpful._  
  
Healer Slaggart, the specialist at St. Mungo’s had ruled out all possible nefarious causes for Harry’s recent symptoms and, just as Malfoy had so smugly predicted, diagnosed Harry with a perfectly fitting magical malady.  A lifetime of prophesy-driven drama had not been enough, apparently.  Now Harry was diagnosed with Fatigued Allergic Toxemia with Secondary Magical Overload, FATSMO for short.  
  
Due to the rarity of the diagnosis, Slaggart had pulled in several other healers to consult, but it had been unanimous.  All the healers agreed that Harry had FATSMO.  They hadn’t seen a FATSMO patient in several years.  But Harry was definitely a FATSMO.  
  
At Slaggart's insistence, Kingsley put him on medical leave, shaking his head in wonder that he hadn’t realized the problem.  
  
At lunch, later, Ron had downplayed the problem  He clapped Harry on the shoulder. _“Just your luck, inn’t it Harry?  Tough break, though.  FATSMO,”_ he had snorted. _“The press will have fun with that, won’t they?”_  
  
Hermione had given Ron a look before sighing and saying, _“Oh, Harry.  How awful.  But, really, that makes so much sense now you say so.  I’ll have to research it.”_  
  
Thinking back, Harry remembered how he had taken in each new detail of his situation with disbelief.  He had insisted on multiple opinions because it was so bizarre, but he'd had absolutely no inkling that anything was fishy.  He was clueless.  How could he be so unsuspecting?  He was doomed.  
  
The worst of it, Healer Slaggart had said, was that Harry’s symptoms would probably multiply and worsen for quite some time before improving.  Slaggart’s words continued to echo.  _“I’d like to give you better news, but forewarned is forearmed, eh Mr. Potter?  There is no way to avoid the forces at play.  There is no cure, per se, because your magical cleansing **is** the cure.”  _ Harry had been at a complete loss for words, but the healer had forged ahead. _“Buck up, Mr. Potter.  It will be a long road, but this too shall pass.  You are a strong young wizard with over a hundred years ahead of you.  I promise.  Five years from now, this will be naught but another blip in your youth.”_  
  
Five years?  He was shaken by the magnitude of the situation.  Malfoy’s plan was foolproof and Harry’s hope for rescue was dead.  
  
He must have groaned because Malfoy started humming the first few bars of the Hogwarts Victory Song.

When Harry still didn't open his eyes, Malfoy shook his shoulder and sang, “Wakey-wakey, Potty.”  
  
Harry didn’t look up to see Malfoy’s smug self-satisfaction but simply said, “I’m awake.”  
  
Malfoy tutted.  “You know, Potty.  It’s considered rude not to look someone directly in the eye when you speak to them.”  
  
Too discouraged to muster outright defiance, Harry sat up straight and looked at Malfoy.  “I apologize, Sir.”  
  
“Apology accepted,” Malfoy replied benevolently, as if he were a King gifting favors.  “Now, Potter, tell me.  How was your day?”  
  
Shite.  The compliance thing recognized that question as an order.  Harry had to answer truthfully.  But, as with Veritaserum, he could sometimes get away with less than the complete truth.  “Not one of my best, Sir.  I’ve never liked going to St. Mungo’s.”  
  
Malfoy snorted.  “You’d think you’d get used to it, at least.  You are there frequently enough.”  
  
Harry shrugged and his stomach growled.  
  
Malfoy smirked and asked, “Hungry?  That’s my Piggy Potty.  Let’s get you ready for supper, shall we?”  He pulled out his wand, incanted _infinitus_ and handed Harry a vial of the now-familiar blue potion.  
  
Harry downed the potion glumly and handed the vial back.  
  
Malfoy pocketed the vial and folded his hands expectantly.  “So.  I believe you were about to tell me about your day...” he prompted.  
  
“I did,” said Harry blankly.  “I told you it wasn’t one of my best.”  
  
"I want details, Potty," Malfoy demanded.  "Dish."  
  
Just then all of Harry's attention was drawn away by the "Void Who Must Be Filled."  His mouth began to water.  He doubled over as his stomach hollowed out, clenching loudly and painfully.  Harry could see Malfoy getting entirely too much entertainment from his discomfort.  Bugger.  
  
Malfoy pouted.  “Come on, Potter.  I’m curious.  Tell me about your day.”  
  
Harry didn't want to answer, but the parental choir nudged and his rising hunger quickly drove him to desperation.  By the time he decided to answer properly, he was too overcome by his hunger to answer properly.  “Bad.  It was a bad day,” he spit out as he bent over a spasm.  He whimpered through a stabbing, roaring wave of desire before looking up at Malfoy and confessing, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”  
  
“Sorry Potter,” Malfoy said shortly.  “Story before supper.  That’s the price tonight.”  
  
Reduced to pure yearning, Harry begged weakly, “Please!  I can’t... Just, please...”  
  
Malfoy, the git, chided, “You are such a baby, Potter.”  
  
Like an addict, Harry would have promised anything.  He strained against his bindings and pleaded, “I’ll be good.  I’ll eat anything; as much as you want.  I’m starving. _Please,_ sir.”  
  
Malfoy pet Harry’s head fondly.  “Poor baby Potter,” he cooed.  “Would you be a good baby for me?  
  
Harry nodded frantically.  “Sure.  A good baby.  Anything.”  
  
“Well...,” Malfoy considered.  “I suppose we might work something out.  Do you know how to retrieve memories for a Pensieve?”  
  
Too far gone to resist, Harry just kept nodding like a bobble-head toy. “Yeah... yes, sir.”  
  
“Excellent,” Malfoy said with a widely spreading grin.  “Now this really will be fun, Potter.” Malfoy gleefully _Accio’_ d a Pensieve and quickly helped Harry to pull out his memories of the day.  “Just a few more details,” he said as he vanished Harry’s clothes and replaced them with a cloth diaper.  Finally, he _Accio_ ’d a bottle and released the bindings.  
  
They tumbled through the Pensieve to the St. Mungo’s room where Harry had been examined this morning.  
  
Landing on his diapered bum, Harry felt disoriented and hungry and his tummy hurt and he couldn’t help whinging in childish outrage, “I’m still hungry, Malfoy.  You _promised._ ”  
  
Malfoy reached down and pulled Harry up, assuring him, “Don’t worry, Potter.  I always keep my promises.”  He pulled an enormous baby bottle from his robes and handed it to Potter.  “Go on, baby.  Suck on this while we see how your day went."  
  
Harry took the giant baby bottle and scowled at its life-sized phallic nipple.  He wanted to object, but was too far gone to remember why.  In desperation, he took a first, tentative suck.  He'd never sucked a cock, but the rubber phallus fit naturally and provided a generous mouthful from the bottle.  “Mmmm,” he mumbled as he continued to pull in the thick, delicious, satisfying substance from the bottle.  Whatever it was, it was blissful.  Cool and sweet and creamy, Harry thought it was better than a milkshake.  More like custard, but tastier.  It soothed his tongue and settled perfectly in his stomach.   By his fourth mouthful, Harry was hooked.

Draco's breath caught at the sight of Potter sucking cock so enthusiastically.  His hateful lips were transformed by the act.  His pudgy cheeks hollowed minutely with each suck.  His jaw and adam's apple worked to perform suction that could draw a man in completely.  
  
 _Fuck_ , though Draco, pulling himself away from the sight of Potter. 

Instead, he chuckled nastily and said, “The hero is conquered."  He walked around Potter, trailing a hand over the soft flesh.  Appraising the great hungry man-baby, he thought Potter looked softer and more vulnerable with his chubby cheeks and all-around layer of baby fat.  And, he didn’t know exactly, but there was something just right about Potter’s growing belly bulging out over his absurd diaper.  Pleased with the distorted image, he patted Potter between his chubby shoulder blades. 

  
He pinched Potter's cheek to get his full attention and said, "Let's say we watch the show, Poppet."  
  
  
 _Potter sat on the examination table in nothing but a lime green Mungo’s wrap around his waist looking swollen and quite miserable.  The Healer cast a continuous stream of diagnostic charms and received negative response after negative response.  He scribbled on the floating parchment and said, “I’m sorry Mr. Potter.  That’s everything.  I performed every available diagnostic.  Healers Adams and Hippocratus have provided second and third opinions.  At your insistence I have quadruple checked.  There is absolutely no evidence of any external magical force which could be causing your symptoms.”_  
  
 _Potter looked forlorn.  “But are you really sure it’s this other…”_

  
  
  
Beside Draco, bottle-sucking Potter made a distressed gurgle and took a step away from him.

  
  
_Pensieve Potter was dressed now and sitting across a desk from the Healer, who explained, “It’s not all that unusual.  We’ve seen a handful of FATSMO patients in my 23 years here at Mungo’s.  It’s a matter of incompatible magic.  That is to say, the patient's internal magic is incompatible with the ambient magic surrounding the patient. Typically, a light child born to a dark family develops FATSMO when they are 16 or 17.  Their light magic has rejected and accommodated for dark magic since infancy, but FATSMO symptoms arise as the adolescent’s training in dark family customs which trigger an allergic reaction to the dark toxins.  The patient presents with abnormally increased appetite and/or sleep patterns and two to three magically reflexive idiosyncrasies. The extent of the reaction differs in response to patient’s particular experience.”_

  
  
  
Draco saw Potter slumping and moved to stand behind him and wrapped his arms around him for support.  He tilted Potter’s chin up and softly instructed, “Keep watching Potter.  If you can’t tell me about your day, you will at least pay attention.”

  
  
  
_“Your magic, Mr. Potter, is unusually strong and “light”, Slaggart continued.  “It has an almost ringing quality to it, like an ever-present striking of crystal.  Now, magic acts as a guardian to all witches and wizards.  Reviewing your personal history, it appears that you have suffered a persistent pattern of physical and magical attacks which would have required magical protection and healing from magics which were antithetical to the nature of your own magic.  I know this must be a lot to absorb, but the bottom line is that each brush against the dark tainted your magic.  FATSMO is a cleansing process.  Quite without your consent or intention, mind you, but your own magic is causing all of these symptoms.”_

  
  
Draco felt Potter’s abdominal muscles strain and realized the great fat prat had been holding his stomach in.  That wouldn’t do.  Pressing more firmly against Potter, Draco ran his splayed hands in slow, firm circles over the hard bulge of Potter’s filling milky tummy and then moved outward to larger, softer curves.  
  
He brushed his mouth against the back of Potter’s ear and ordered, “Relax.”  
  
Potter huffed around the nipple but allowed his stomach to slump forward, bigger and softer.

  
  
  
_“...  The cleansing process is a simple flushing of your systems with maximum capacity usage of light magic and all of your life-giving functions.  You will be irresistibly compelled to engage in physically healing, nourishing activities.”  Raising his eyebrows, Slaggart noted kindly, “In your case, it appears that the first stage includes a course of maximum capacity nourishment.  I would say that the quantum and duration this symptom will be enhanced in compensation for the deprivations of your childhood.  You may expect days with specific cravings and days of insatiable thirst.”_

  
_“But surely not this much,”  pensieve Potter protested._

  
  
  
Potter shifted uncomfortably and Draco murmured, “Shush.  Listen to your Healer, won’t you Potter? Binging is good for you.”  Draco cupped and squeezed around curves of Harry’s love handles, then forward under the great curve of his belly, then gently explored belly button depths with one finger after another.  
  
Draco continued to shush Potter, as each new touch made him squirm.  Potter sucked harder.

 

  
  
 _"Later, you may find yourself “binging” so to speak on other things.  I would expect you will find yourself napping intermittently or sleeping for days.  You may feel compelled to take up a new activity such as walking or gardening or playing with children.  You may find yourself drawn to spiritual or musical endeavors.  Or humor.  From the several patients I have treated and the literature available, FATSMOs seek a range of positive, life-affirming experiences that are as broad as the varieties of personalities in the world._ "

  
  
Draco removed the exploring finger, wet it noisily in his mouth and circled Harry's belly button, eventually reaching its deepest contours.  Harry jerked back into Draco’s erection, squealed wordlessly, then seemed to brace himself.  
  
Draco laughed.  “Did my ticklish piggie just squeal?  More and more piggish, aren't you Potter,” he taunted, as he glided his other hand up to rest on the rising and falling bulge of Harry’s quickly filling stomach.  
  
Potter’s only response was to tilt his bottle up a bit and suck more loudly.

 

  
  
_“odd physical symptoms are magically reflexive idiosyncrasies.  The working theory is that magic has strained to enhance a FATSMO’s cognitive and physical function in times of emergency.  During the cleansing, FATSMOs experience random shut-downs of the very systems and abilities which previously benefited from emergency magical assistance.  For example, the scans tell me that your magic healed no less than 11 broken bones before you began at Hogwarts.  Six of those injuries were at or near the left knee which is collapsing today.  Considering the severity and frequency of the injuries, I would predict repeated magical shut-down of this body part.”_   
  
_Potter cut in to ask, “So I should expect my left knee to keep going wonky?”_   
  
_Healer Slaggart looked pleased.  “Precisely.  Plan for it.”_

 

  
  
Draco was delighted.  He tightened his hold and purred, “Did you hear that, Potter?” Then he bumped his knee hard against the back of Potter’s left leg, making Potter’s leg buckle.  
  
Bumped momentarily away from his bottle, Potter let out a burp that spoke volumes.

 

  
  
_"Even on a seemingly good day, you should shrink and carry the cane I have given you.  And likewise with other shut-down symptoms; if you find coping mechanisms, then by all means, you should keep those mechanisms handy.  It seems your communication systems are effected, so you should keep quill and parchment handy should your verbal skills suddenly fail."_

 

  
  
“Whatever you say Potter,” Draco chortled at the burp.  “But just so you know, I have an endless supply of magically reflexive idiosyncrasies planned for you.”  
  
A little moan escaped from Potter that sounded a lot like defeat.

 

  
  
Pensieve Potter slumped in his seat as the Healer droned on, " _Beyond the physical, FATSMO will affect your magic.  Generally, light spells will surge, while dark or defensive spells may go pear shaped.  However, most patients report these bursts and failures as being entirely erratic.  You cannot perform as an Auror with such unreliable magic.  I’m afraid I must recommend that you be placed on medical leave for the foreseeable future."_

 

 

  
With one hand on his hip, Draco pulled Potter back against him.  He fondled and rolled the soft and sensitive flesh under a nipple with his other hand.  Potter made desperate little gasps every time his mouth released the nipple to breathe.  Potter’s chest began to heave with labored breaths, but Draco could not be sure whether Potter was aroused or whether he had started to cry.

 

  
  
_“… obviously no cure for FATSMO.  You see, my dear wizard, the symptoms ARE the cure.  And quite to be encouraged.  The very best you can do is to embrace your FATSMO.  There are two things you must do.  First, you must welcome the process.  If you consciously resist, your magic will be confused, trying to heal you and to abide your wishes.  Healing will ultimately prevail, but it will be considerably delayed.  Odd as it may be, you must accept all aspects of FATSMO as a good and beneficial thing.  Secondly, allow yourself to participate in FATSMO’s life-affirming urges with enthusiasm.  You may notice peripheral or secondary effects, but we cannot fight them during the cleansing.  Simply keep faith that any unwanted side-effects can be easily addressed at the end of the process."_

 

  
  
By now, Potter was sobbing and choking but still sucking down greedily.  
  
Draco slid his hands to center, caressing Harry’s tautly swollen stomach.  “Don’t cry, Potter.  Healer Slaggart would be so proud to see you embrace the FATSMO.  Oh, baby.”  
  
“Mfk,” Harry uttered wetly amongst gasping whimpers.

 

  
  
  
_Slaggart began handing Potter a slew of pamphlets and continued to instruct, “The other thing you must do to speed this process is to avoid everything associated with dark magic and malicious emotions while increasing your use of the lightest and most life-giving charms and spells.  You must avoid even those light spells which contact dark magic.  Do not cast protection shields, reducto, petrificus, banish.  On the other hand, cast unrestricted lumos, lolum lumos, lumos maximo – light, light, light.  Sit in the sunshine.  Create things with your hands; conjure lovely innocent things._

 

  
  
Potter swayed as if his crying was making him sleepy.  His arms slipped, allowing the giant, ever-full bottle to dip down.  He became heavier in Draco’s arms.  
  
Draco pressed forward into Harry’s soft arse and growled, “Oh yeah, we’ll grow lots of things, won’t we Potter?”

  
  
~~~  
  
They were expelled from the Pensieve and tumbled back, Draco landing in his club chair and Harry falling heavily in his lap.  
  
The sudden whump broke the nipple from Potter’s mouth.  He glared briefly at Malfoy with sleepy, tear stained eyes and let out a belch before pulling his bottle back.  
  
“Manners”, Draco scolded automatically, while tipping Potter into a more comfortable position.  
  
Back at his greedy sucking and swallowing, Potter seemed to have something to say, but it came out as nothing more than, “Mmm.  Phu.  Mh.”  
  
Draco laughed and rubbed the taut surface of Potter’s belly, which was swollen larger than ever and spilling over Potter’s diaper to rest on his naked thighs.  
  
“You are huge,” he marveled.  
  
Potter rubbed his head back against Draco’s forehead and shifted to the side to balance the bottle against Draco’s shoulder.  
  
“Potter.  Are you cuddling??” sputtered Draco.  
  
Potter popped the nipple just long enough to murmur, “Tired,” before going limp from sleep.  
  
Draco craned his neck to look at Potter’s blotchy and tear-stained face.  As he watched, Potter's frown smoothed out into peaceful relaxation.


	7. Day Nine -- Victory Laps

September 24, 2001

 

Draco dropped an ice cube in his Firewhiskey, causing the mesmerizing _crack-sizzle-smoke_ that was as much a part of the experience for him as the burn of his first sip.  He then amused himself by blowing the flame from one side of the glass to the other.  
  
 _Merlin_ , he thought, _Father would have levitated me by my ear if he had ever caught me playing with 50 year old Firewhiskey like this._  
  
 _Father...  bad thought._  
  
 _Moving on._  
  
He glanced at the grandfather’s clock tocking gloomily in the opposite corner.  3:45.  He was early for the evening's feeding because he had no idea when Potter would show up now that he wasn’t working.  
  
Potter’s dinner was already set up by his special new furniture.  In honor of last night’s success, tonight’s menu kept to the same theme.  For extra fun he had conceived a theme-appropriate challenge and charmed a theme-appropriate play area .  
  
If it weren’t entirely unbecoming a Malfoy, he might think he was giddy with anticipation.  
  
As it was, he took another searing sip of his Firewhiskey and willed himself to relax.   
  
 _I beat Potter._  
  
 _Ha._  
  
Having borne a distinct lack of success in the last few years, Draco felt entitled to bask in this win.  
  
 _Truly,_ he thought, _even if life had been flush with recent victories, this one would still be particularly sweet._  
  
He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and took pleasure in a pure rush of adrenaline.  Winning felt like flying:  the freedom, the power, the rush of the air; and more.  In this moment, Draco felt the happy anticipation of having soared high and being poised at the top of an arch, knowing he would delight in the swoosh of a dive in the next moment.  
  
He had been flying for these past three days.  
  
Potter’s downfall had been swift and brutal, thanks to his oh-so brilliant plan.  With nothing but a restricted wand and his wiles, he, Draco Abraxus Malfoy, had captured Harry Freaking Potter and smashed his soul to smithereens.  He’d removed Potter from Ministry supervision, given the world reason to expect strange changes, and turned him into a pathetic lump.  All the while, Potter’s vaunted friends, the Ministry and St. Mungo’s were none the wiser.  
  
 _Take that, stupid lumps who refused to hire me._  
  
 _Take that, stupid Snake Lord who ruined my life._  
  
 _Take that, stupid Potter who didn’t recognize the best offer of friendship he’d ever get._  
  
Draco refilled his Firewhiskey and turned to the small pile of newspaper clippings on the side table.  He rolled the liquor around in his mouth, wanting to burn the moment into memory.  
  
The Daily Prophet had run six separate stories reporting the Golden Boy's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Monday.  The best, of course, was the top story.  Three-inch type declared:

 

 

  
           **POTTER IS FATSMO**  
           Tragic Boy Hero Suffering from Fatigued Allergic Toxemia with Secondary Magical Overload.

 

 

 _Funny_ , Draco snickered to himself, _how easy it still is to steer Skeeter to a Potter story._  
  
The remainder of the front page reported:

 

 

 

  
           **DYSFUNCTIONAL POTTER ON INDEFINITE LEAVE**  
           Following an intensive medical examination today,  
           Minister Shackelbolt placed Auror Trainee Harry Potter  
           on Indefinite Medical Leave Because  
           FATSMO Causes Magical Dysfunction  
           which could make him a danger to himself and others.

 

  
An article in the Salem Spark reported Potter’s “tragic diagnosis” and questioned whether yesterday’s hero was “ **ON LEAVE OR OUT TO PASTURE?** ”

  
  
The bright red blinking headline of the Parisian Nouvelles Mystique asked a simple question.   " **ET POTTER FATSMO??"**

 

Knowing the whole world had seen Potter’s dismal fall from grace, Draco drifted off into happy recollections of the wreck Harry had been the night before.

  
  
***

Later, footsteps into the kitchen pantry alerted Draco that his plaything had returned.  He looked up to see Potter hold tightly to the railing as he thunked heavily down the stairs.  
  
 _Slytherin on a stick!  What on earth was the fat slob wearing now?_ It was either grey long underwear or the world’s ugliest pajamas.  Whatever it was, it was skin tight and displayed Potter’s weight gain unmistakably.  
  
 _Gross Gryffindor, Potter had grown._ His face had rounded out so that his plump cheeks quivered as he walked.  He’d put enough flesh on his arms and legs to fill out his odd outfit.  Most of his weight, though, was centered on his abdomen and his arse.  His top stretched in vain, failing to cover the wobbly roll around his middle.  A thick, doughy inch of flesh drooped beneath the waistband.  
  
Draco wanted.  He wanted to knead that doughy flesh.  Or bite it.  Or, perhaps, lick it.  
  
  
***

For less than an instant, Harry was aware of Malfoy’s presence, of being bound to his chair, and of his burgeoning body being uncomfortably constrained by his clothes.  He then began Occluding before he truly rose from Malfoy’s sleeping spell.  
  
At the end of last night’s torment he'd had a desperate idea.  
  
He needed a plan.  That was obvious.  His problem had been that, to come up with a plan, he needed time to think.  He could not work out a plan during evenings which were entirely preoccupied by Malfoy.  And he was entirely clueless during his days.  Perhaps, he reasoned, he could buy some time to think if he occluded before he dealt with Malfoy.  He had no idea if he would be able to (a) remember his plan upon waking, (b) fool Malfoy into thinking he hadn’t woken up, or (c) come up with a plan even if he had all the time in the world.  But it was the best – and only – idea he had.  
  
So, as he had stumbled up the stairs and into oblivion, his last desperate thoughts last night had been, _Occlude immediately, remember to occlude, need time to think, occlude immediately._  
  
Amazingly, tonight he remembered.  Before he had so much as twitched this evening, his mantra came back to him loud and clear.  _Occlude immediately, remember to occlude, need time to think, occlude immediately._  
  
Instead of rising to consciousness, he submerged his awareness to a familiar safe haven.  Over years of practicing Occlumency, he’d built a comfortable and well-protected sanctuary for his conscious mind.

***  
  
He’d arrived.  
  
With his eyes still closed, he could feel the warm sun and light breeze.  He curled his toes into the soft grass.  He rolled his tense shoulders.  He took a deep breath of the fresh air.  He felt at peace.  Smiling, he opened his eyes to see his hedgerow labyrinth extending before him.  Knowing he had work to do, he put on the work gloves that lay at the top of his bucket of garden tools.  He picked up the bucket and a rake and headed for the maze.  
  
The protection of his maze was deceptively simple.  He guarded it with four concentric squares each having multiple breaks in hedge on the outer wall, but none on inner wall.  Only he knew which outer wall break actually lead towards the center.  After winding his way through the outer squares, he quickly found the debris from this Malfoy experience.  
  
It looked like his maze had been damaged by a storm  -- there was a rip in the hedge and the path was strewn with sticks and leaves and cutlery and shards of that stupid bottle.  Harry began to rake it all into tidy piles.   He could see and feel bits and pieces of memory and emotion as he cleaned.  His stomach sank as he was struck by how truly fucked he was.  Utter misery.  He was sick every morning.  All day long he was pigish, foolish, clueless, clumsy, inarticulate, rejected, humored, pushed and pulled like some life-sized marionette.  And always, always so cursed hungry, eating, gaining.  He was trapped.  
  
Raking wisps of corn silk into the pile, he thought of Malfoy.  _The git has all the power.   He's so sodding smug I want to choke him.  But that's just it_ , he thought.  _I can't do a thing to him can I?  I don't have any leverage whatsoever.  And it makes him so bleeding thrilled to see me miserable.  I thought he was going to cum in his pants last night with that baby shite._  
  
 _It’s partly my fault, though.  I’ve played right into his game.  He wanted to humiliate me and I let him see just how humiliated I was.  Godrick forgive me, I cried.  But shite, sucking down a keg's worth of glop from a giant baby bottle, while in a diaper and reliving the whole FATSMO ordeal?  I'm pretty resilient, but that was just ridiculous.  A bloke would need a super-sized cheering charm for that one._  
  
 _Wait._  
  
 _Could I do a wandless cheering charm?  I might get past the blasted Black family heirlooms if I intend for the charm to help me comply.  It wouldn't be very strong.  Maybe if I could think of a happy thought and enhance it with the cheering charm..._  
  
He snorted at the impossibility of finding a truly happy aspect of his miserable situation.  But then an image flashed before him.  _Huh.  How weird is it that I might actually have a happy thought for this?_  
  
 _I need to visit the Boy_ , he thought.  He didn’t often venture to the center, but it was necessary tonight.  Resolved, he placed his garden tools neatly in a corner and headed for the center of the maze.  The path was dizzyingly twisted, but he knew the way by heart.  He slowed as he turned the final corner and approached carefully.  
  
At the center of Harry’s occlumency maze lay a riotously colorful garden, criss-crossed by winding paths that separated patches of flowers from magical herbs and vegetable patches.  The very heart of the garden was a great oak that held an amazing tree house.  
  
The little boy that Harry used to be sat on a swing hanging from a branch of the oak.  Boy looked up at Harry, jumped off the swing and stood at cautious attention.  As ever, he looked neglected and underfed.  "Have I done something wrong?” he asked nervously.  “I've been trying to be good."  
  
Harry smiled and placed a comforting hand on the frail shoulder.  “Yes.  I know.  You've been very good,” Harry assured him.  Then, holding out a serving tray, he said, “I brought you something.”  
  
Harry took the tray over to a newly appeared picnic table and set out a plate of fruit and cheese and fresh bread.  He added a pitcher of milk and a small plate of chocolate biscuits.  
  
Boy stood back with his hands clasped tightly behind him.  
  
“Go on, then,” Harry encouraged.  
  
“Is this really for me?” Boy asked in a whisper.  
  
“All for you,” Harry affirmed.  “And there will be more any time you are hungry.  As much as you want.”  
  
“Thank you!!” Boy said with a spectacular smile.  He gave Harry a tight hug before rushing to serve himself a delicious meal.  
  
Harry felt warm and content.  _I should have done this a long time ago_ , he thought.  
  
Turning to go, Harry decided that, _yes, abundant food will be my happy thought._  
  
He backed out of his Occlumency construct at a determined pace, quickly assembling the experiences and emotions he needed:

 

 

 

_I've always been terrified of going hungry._

_I have been afraid that it said too much about my past so I_ **boxed it in** _._

_Ignoring my fears hadn't made them disappear._

_I also have **crazy cravings** for decadent overabundance,_   
_but I know I don't deserve it._

_Whenever I've started to indulge, I always backed off._

_Little did he know it, but by forcing me to eat,_   
_Malfoy gave me permission to fulfill lifelong fantasies_   
_of decadent, never-ending, overindulgence._

_I despise Malfoy for the whole_   
_**twisted** non-consensual, **violative** , humiliating experience._

_But **compared** to the **Dursleys** and **Voldemort**_   
_who have quite obviously never met any of my needs,_   
_Malfoy is practically a **Nanny**. _

_Malfoy's done a crack job of turning my waking days to shite._

_But, thought about another way,_   
_**Malfoy has dedicated himself to feeding and caring for me.**_

_Nobody has ever done that except for **Nanny Draco.**_

__

  
As he rose to his conscious mind, Harry knew his Happy Thought:

 

 

 

  
_**Nanny Draco will serve my decadent, never-ending, overindulgence fantasies.** _

 

 

 _OK,_ thought Harry.  _It’s not exactly a plan, but if I can keep myself from falling apart at least I’ll give the git less satisfaction._

 

***

  
Harry startled at Malfoy’s touch on his shoulder.  
  
“Wakey, wakey, Potty,” Malfoy snidely chided.  “My, but you fit the ‘fat and lazy’ stereotype to a T, don’t you?  Nevertheless you must still conform to my house rules.  You may be reverting to infancy with abundant new layers of baby fat, but our evening assignation is not to be confused with your naptime.  Am I understood?”  
  
During Malfoy’s brief lecture, Harry had concentrated, firstly, on his happy thought, secondly, on his intention that a cheering charm would help him to comply with Malfoy’s instructions, and, thirdly, on casting the strongest and longest lasting cheering charm he could manage.  
  
A delightful wave of bliss told him that the charm had worked beautifully.  
  
Suppressing the impulse to whoop with joy, he smiled pleasantly and replied, “Hello to you, too, Malfoy.  Yes.  I understand that this is not my time to fritter away with naps.  This is your time.  I apologize.”  
  
Harry’s smile broadened as he felt the heirloom control magic slip into synch with the cheering charm, apparently satisfied that the cheering charm was indeed symbiotic to its purposes.  
  
Malfoy was briefly boggled by a happy and cooperative captive.  He rallied, however, with his haughtiest sneer and accused, “Good Lord, Porker!  Where are your clothes?  You are in nothing but underwear!”  
  
Harry looked down at his cheap cotton track set.  If he remembered correctly, it was a men’s size small.  The thin gray fabric stretched well beyond decency.  The armpits pulled the fabric across his chest, separating the swell of his pudgy pecs from his round abdominal mound.  He couldn’t see past his stomach mound, but could feel cool air nipping his exposed skin where his sweatshirt rode up.  He tried to tug his shirt down but couldn’t  reach it with his wrists still bound to his chair.  
  
The choir of parental units in the heirloom control magic told him quite clearly that a well-mannered wizard should never entertain company in such plebeian rags.  Harry blushed profusely, but the sting of shame did not pierce his cheerful armor.   With his reactions thusly muted, he played his part easily.  “Not underwear,” he explained.  “It’s an old track set.  I put it on because I was having a hard time convincing Hermione and Ron that I didn’t feel like going to dinner with them tonight.  We usually go every Tuesday.”  
  
“Yes, yes.  The pushy know-it-all.  If Brainger really knew everything, she’d have found an efficacious hair product before now, wouldn’t she?  That’s neither here nor there.  The point, Potter,” Malfoy pressed his wand to Harry’s invisible heirloom ring, causing it to glow.  “The very critical point is that you must dispose of these child-sized rags along with all of the other ugly, ill-fitting Muggle atrocities that are surely lurking in the dark and tasteless corners of your wardrobe.  Do you understand me?”  
  
The heirloom magic flared through Harry, making his head ache slightly.  “Yes sir,” he affirmed.  He shifted in his seat as his stomach grumbled hungrily.  
  
“Henceforth, you shall attire yourself in proper wizarding clothes at all times.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  Harry nodded again.  Then to the utter chagrin of the parental units, he grinned and asked, “Henceforth?  Really?  Isn’t that a bit poncy?”  
  
Malfoy glared at him, wondering what could possibly have put Potter in such a good mood.   Dismissing that thought for the moment, he tapped his finger on his top lip and pondered.  “Obviously, my prior suggestion was inneffective, suggesting my command must be more specific.  How must the order be worded to stick properly?  How to achieve the perfect balance?  On the one hand, poor plebeian Potty was raised by wolves, after all, and must be taught to dress like a proper wizard.  On the other hand, the foolish FATSMO must look ridiculous.  Hmm...  What to do?  What to do?”  
  
Malfoy took a slow walk round his prisoner to examine him from all angles.  “I know!”  he exclaimed brightly.  He pressed his wand against the ring again and commanded, “Furthermore, and henceforth, you will purchase all of your clothing and accessories at the famed Garrish Brothers Unlimited Wizardwear shop.  I’m sure you will love it, Snotty.  I happen to know for a fact that your beloved Bumblesnore purchased all of his flashiest togs from Garrish Brothers.”  
  
“Dumbledore’s robes?”  On an intellectual level, Harry knew he should dread the prospect of Dumbledore’s flashy colors and animations.  Still, with his current cheer, it just seemed funny.  “Yes, sir,” he agreed.  
  
His stomach percolated loudly in its efforts to digest the last of Harry’s giant lunch.  Instead of being mortified, Harry asked politely, “Is it time for dinner?”  
  
Malfoy was getting frustrated by Potter’s failure to react to tonight’s barbs.  “All in good time, my dear Golden Toy.  It is time to prepare for dinner,” he said as he gave Harry his potion and cast the infinitus.  “But first, I want to hear all about your first day as an official FATSMO.”  
  
Cheer or no cheer, Harry remembered having a lousy day.  He thought instead about how great it was to see Malfoy’s current annoyance. He grinned and told him, “Good, thanks.  All things considering, I had a very nice day.  Hermione took the day off to come over and help me research this syndrome thing of mine and set up contingency plans.”  
  
Malfoy made a face.  “Potty.  Your life is beyond pathetic if you think research with the Brain-ger is a good time.”  
  
“Probably,” Harry admitted easily.  He might not have an escape, but by Godrick he was going to have some fun with this.  “But research puts Hermione in a great mood and it gave us a chance to catch up.”  
  
"Merlin save me, Rotter. Your life is BO-ring! Did you even go out for a civilized meal?"  
  
"Er, no.  Sir."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I just... didn't feel like inviting another round of press coverage."  
  
"And you called me a coward. No, no, no. This surely will not do. No matter how much it feels like home, you can't simply hide here in the Grimauld Wolf Den. How would your admiring public be kept abreast of your tragic FATSMO developments?"  
  
Harry felt the cheering charm start to fade like a slow-leaking balloon. He couldn't help but make a face and try, "But..."  
  
"No buts, Potty," ordered Malfoy. Pulling his wand and applying it to Harry's heirloom ring, he commanded, "Tomorrow, you will make your first visit to Garrish Brothers where you will purchase just the right wardrobe for a growing FATSMO who is unashamed of his condition and refuses to become a recluse. After shopping, you will be dressed from head to foot in Garrish Brother's finest. You will stroll down the Alley and enjoy a fulfilling lunch at a window table at the Round Table."  
  
Distracted by the hunger currently sucking him down into a sharp, yawning cavern of desire, Harry could only stare.  
  
Malfoy poked him with his wand. "Do you understand?"  
  
Harry's gaze was unfocused. His mumbled "yes sir" was nearly drowned out by a long stomach rumble.  
  
Malfoy cracked the back of Harry's hand with his wand. "Pay Attention!" he barked.  
  
Harry blinked rapidly and nodded.  
  
Malfoy concluded his instructions, "Day after tomorrow, and henceforth Potter, you will faithfully, each and every day, dress yourself in Garrish Brother's best and brightest, and make an appearance at Diagon Alley. At a minimum, you will promenade a full circuit, from end to end of the Alley. You will enjoy a meal at a prominent table and you will go shopping and purchase at least two items.  Understood?”  
  
“Mm-hm.  Erm, yeah.  Is it dinner time yet?”  
  
Malfoy grinned.  “Lucky for you, Piggy, it is time for din-din.  So, stand up and strip.”  
  
The bindings clanked to the floor and Harry looked up blankly.  “Excuse me, Sir?  Strip?”


	8. All Together Now

Malfoy stood with his wand and his satisfied smirk and ordered Harry to, “Stand up and strip.”

And Harry’s world changed on the tip of a wish.  

His little bit of cheer held back his instinctive anger.  Nearly delirious with hunger, Harry saw Nanny Draco instead of his insufferable schoolboy rival turned crazed captor.  A warm, fuzzy feeling joined his cheer and hunger.  Harry realized,   _Nanny Draco hasn’t worked me like an elf and shoved me in a cupboard.  He hasn’t hurt me (much).  He hasn’t invaded my dreams or tried to kill me or left me in some manky dungeon.  He sends me to bed at night.  He’s one peculiar bloke with the abduction and humiliation shite.  But I think the Nanny might have a thing for me.  What the fuck?  
_

It was not reluctance, but his world-rocking paradigm shift that made Harry hesitate and ask,  “Excuse me, Sir?”

“You heard me, Potty,” Malfoy sneered, thinking he had regained the upper hand.  “Stand up and strip.” 

So Harry did.  He peeled his too-tight sweat shirt up off of his undeniably fleshy torso.  Bent over in hunger, he kicked off his trainers and grappled with the rest.  He began to feel clumsy and fat as his stomach folded into a flabby rolls.   

But then... Harry remembered that Nanny Draco had put an enormous amount of energy into feeding him and contriving this very scenario.   Which was exactly why he was about to turn inside out with hunger. 

“ _Please_...”

Malfoy put his hand on his hip dramatically and asked, “But Poppet, you are _au naturale_.  Don’t you want to put on your diaper before dinner?”

Harry couldn't wait a moment longer; he shook his head.  “Just... dinner...”

 “Alright,” Malfoy said with exaggerated reluctance.  “Just pop into your chair.”  He gestured to an overlarge pink and lavender baby lounger.

“Thanks,” Harry gasped.  He fell on his knees in his eagerness.  He fumbled to move the toy bar and scoot himself onto the low bouncy chair.  It seemed to take forever to settle into the chair because his every shift made the chair bounce, his fat jiggle and his stomach rumble.  Faintly embarrassed, he looked up to see a mesmerized Malfoy.  Malfoy’s admiration washed the embarrassment away.

 Malfoy’s face turned stony and he jeered, “Don’t you look the picture of a pretty baby.  Just look at how you’ve grown!  Are you sure that belly of yours really needs dinner?”   

Harry glanced down to see lumpy contours and a mounding belly that could not be said to ‘need’ dinner.  Yet he wanted dinner; his stomach ached; his mouth watered.  “ _Please?_ ” he implored with all his heart.

“ _That’s_ the magic word,” Malfoy praised as he placed last night’s giant baby bottle with the 6-inch phallic nipple just out of Harry’s reach.  “I do like to hear you beg, Potty.  Say it again.”

“Please, Malfoy.”  Harry couldn’t help whinging.   

Harry had begged, for Merlin's sake. And it was more than worth it.  From his first greedy suck, he pulled in the same thick, delicious, satisfying goo he’d had the night before.  His tongue wrapped happily around the now-familiar shape.  Each swallow was bliss going down.  He closed his eyes and was lost in the cool creamy comfort.  He forgot Malfoy and all the head games.  Instead, he savored the simple taste and the satisfaction of filling his greedy stomach.

Harry closed his eyes and floated away on the bliss of sucking and tasting and filling the void. 

Draco watched.  He didn’t think he’d ever seen Potter look so content.  He couldn’t help touching Potter’s wet lips where they wrapped around the cock-shaped nipple.  He drew his finger around the cock where Potter’s lips moved as he sucked.

Whimpering, he reached down and turned on the giant vibrator attached to the bottom of the seat. 

Harry smiled briefly around the nipple.  He bounced.  Then he started to hum.  He continued to suck for all he was worth, apparently unchanged by his humming and rocking and gyrating.

Draco retreated to the comfort of his chair and his Firewiskey as Potter went from flacid to fully engorged.  He unfastened his own trousers, enthralled watching Potter’s cock hyperextend and start to rub against the bouncing bulge of his belly.   He stroked himself to the same rhythm of the head of Potter’s cock rubbing again and again against Potter’s bouncing and wet and sticky belly.  Draco’s arousal might have swirled forever as he vicariously lived in the velvet heat of Potter's sucking and stroking and bouncing and rubbing.

Harry, apparently, didn’t have forever.  His sucking slowed as he found he couldn’t pump more into his fully distended stomach.  He rocked the chair harder, nearly hitting the floor with each bounce.  He twisted his hips to put more pressure on his cock.  And finally.  Finally, he took his cock in hand.  He spit the nipple out, arched his head back and moaned long and deep.  He pulled his cock up hard and rubbed the head back and forth against his bulging belly.  Four hard pulls and he came, roaring inarticulately and shaking that bouncy seat well past its intended capacity.

Draco pulled and pushed and moaned and cried out as Potter did.  His orgasm was so extreme that Potter had rolled off his chair and fallen sound asleep before Draco recovered.  Too lax to do more, he found his wand, spelled them both clean, summoned a blanket and curled up behind Potter.

Hours later Draco woke up wondering what the fuck had just happened.    Hoping to hell Potter wouldn’t remember anything past his feeding, he levitated Potter up to bed.   He fell asleep again dreaming disjointedly about bringing his dastardly plot back on track.


	9. Garrish Appeal (part one)

 September 25, 2001

 

Draco was late the next evening, having been caught by his mother as he popped home for necessities.  Narcissa might be quite deranged, but she could still wield proprieties and guilt to control her grown son.  He was not quite certain how, but he'd been compelled to stay for a proper tea.  According to his mother, proper teas are meant to be savored.  His mother never rushed tea.  Turned out, she had quite the knack for dragging tea out unbearably when she wanted to grill the prodigal son about his endless disappearances and his progress in his futile efforts to raise the family up and out of exile. 

Having finally escaped, Draco dashed down the stairs to the Niche.  When he saw Potter he felt as though he had landed wrong-footed.  Why wasn't he miserable?  Potter looked...  well, if not happy, he was extremely relaxed.  He certainly did not look miserable.  He had expected Potter to be an extremely miserable and tasteless clown after his first trip to Garrish Brothers.  Surprisingly, Potter’s new robes were several steps up from his usual rags. Draco would never have chosen the psychedelic fan collar with the constantly splashing tie dye colours, but it didn’t seem to bother Potter.   Otherwise, the cobalt robes were undeniably well-cut and a decorative array of small pleats allowed the fabric to drape flatteringly over his bloated form.   

Blinking up at Draco, Potter actually smiled.  “Good evening, Malfoy.” 

Draco kept his face rigidly neutral.  This simply wasn’t possible.  Potter should have had a horrible day.  Draco had cast babbling and disorientation hexes to ensure Potter would look and sound like a drunken idiot, bumping his giant overlarge self into everything and everyone he passed.  He should have been frustrated and embarrassed by the effort.  Instead, he looked like he had been to a day spa.  Did he get his hair cut, or was that his imagination? 

Draco bit down hard on his impulse to compliment the git.  He cocked his head, raised an eyebrow and began a slow walk around his victim.  Clapping slowly, he praised Potter sarcastically, “Oh. Well done, Potter.  So you do know how to spend a few of your Galleons.  Too bad you practically have to be put under Imperious before you bother to take care of yourself.” 

Potter returned Draco’s haughty glare with his own steady gaze.  Draco thought he saw a flash of something… indiscernible.  Whatever it was, it made him vaguely uncomfortable. 

Looking down his nose at Potter, Draco sneered, "Hungry again Porker?" 

Potter was so well trained by now that he was barely insulted.  Instead,  Malfoy's efforts to wind him up started his mouth watering and stomach rumbling.   Licking his lips, he said, "Yes sir." 

"Hmm.  You're getting better at this.  Can you tell me what time it is?" 

"Dinner time, sir?" 

Malfoy snorted.  "You wish, Podgy.  Try again." 

Seeing the Pensieve Malfoy had summoned, it wasn't much of a guess.  "Pensieve memory, sir?" he sighed. 

"Will that be a problem?" Malfoy asked sharply. 

"Problem?"  He winced again as his stomach clenched with hunger.  "No.  No problem.  It's just... will it take very long?" 

Draco smiled slyly and observed, “My, my, Piggy.  You are terribly eager tonight.  You seem to be exceedingly hungry considering I have not dosed you with your potion or or applied your appetite charm.  Hmm?” 

Harry blushed bit his lip.  “Um.  Yes sir.  I have been especially hungry all day today.  I think it’s because I, erm, skipped dinner last night.” 

“ _Skipped_ dinner??” Draco scoffed.  “If I recall, you were fed to bursting last night.” 

“Yeah.  Yes, sir,” Potter agreed, reminding himself he was speaking to Nanny Draco, who wanted to feed him.  “But, erm, you know, there was no solid food.  Just the, erm, bottle thing."  Coming a bit unglued as his hunger rose, Harry babbled on,  "And I was hungrier than ever today.  Will there be a real dinner, y'know, with solid food, tonight?   Could we, maybe, do the Pensieve after dinner?” 

“Oh, Podgy!”  Malfoy crowed, running his hands over the round globe of Harry’s belly.  “My, my, my.  Your cauldron sized stomach demands cauldron sized meals, hm?”  He worked his hands under Harry’s belly to heft it, "Oof, what a big lad you are."  Letting go of Harry's stomach, he stepped back and spoke condescendingly,  “Don’t be distressed, you big burly bear.  You should be pleased.  Increasing your appetite is one of the primary goals of this whole endeavor.”  When Potter’s stomach howled in distress, Draco patted it like a favorite pet.  “I couldn’t be prouder.” 

Unsurprisingly, Draco’s close attentions made Harry hungrier and his stomach rumbled loudly.  Weirdly, Harry was also pleased.  He couldn’t help but warm to the praise.  He felt heat rise on his face and, more disturbingly, in his groin.    

Draco walked a few steps away to act as though he was pondering some great decision.  Then he announced, “I suggest a compromise.  I do have quite a lovely dinner ready, but it must wait until after we view your day.  I can see, however, that you feel very hungry, and I wouldn't want to _inconvenience_ you in any way.  You give me the memories of your Diagon Alley visit and I will give you,” -- he summoned a strange helmet contraption on which two two baby bottles were mounted.  The bottles were attached to tubes leading to a man-sized dummy in the shape of a penis -- “this Guzzle Helmet to tide you over while we watch your day.  Doesn’t that sound like a fair exchange?” 

Eyeing the contraption warily, Harry asked, “Isn’t that a… erm, Muggle thing for chugging beer?  Sir?” 

“Originally,” Malfoy sniffed scornfully.  “But, obviously, I’ve modified it.” As he strapped the helmet snuggly onto Harry, he explained,  “ I’ve mounted two  bottomless bottles of nutritive infusion and directed them through the single dummy to provide a potential flow twice that of the single previous bottle.” 

Oddly touched by the effort the twisted sod had gone to, Harry actually meant it when he said, “Thanks, Sir.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Malfoy muttered, stopping up Harry’s mouth with the phallic dummy.  "Now.  Just one condition:  if you want a "real dinner" tonight, you musn't make a pig of yourself.  Do you understand?" 

Soothed and happy from his first satisfying swallow of the thick tasty drink, Harry nodded solemnly. 

“In we go,” Malfoy ordered and they tipped themselves into the Pensieve. 

~~~

 

 _Appearing in the brick entrance to Diagon Alley, Pensieve-Potter performed some sort of spastic balancing move and braced himself against a cane._  

 _Harry’s burgeoning form was bursting out of a mismatched assortment of too small clothes.  He kept pulling up on a pair of dress trousers that wouldn’t zip up.  He wore an unbuttoned dress shirt over an oversized Chudley Cannons t-shirt.  Harry’s newest robe hung open over the whole ensemble, making it look as though he didn’t know how to dress himself._  

 _Harry leaned on his cane and staggered uncertainly into the alley, not seeming to know where he was headed.   Walking toward the produce and herbs carts, he swung right and thudded directly into a hulking delivery wizard.  Harry wobbled back a step, looked up at the wizard with wide eyes and said unintelligibly, “Mm… me applogees.”_  

 _The delivery wizard looked down, held Harry’s shoulder until he stopped wobbling.   He advised, “Time to sober up, mate,” before walking away._  

 _Shaking his head as if to clear a fog, Harry took a deep breath and headed away from the early morning produce shoppers.  He had shambled past several storefronts before running into his next obstacle in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies.  Unfortunately, when he crashed into the live-action dummy of a Quidditch player racing along on the newest model Nimbus broom, he not only knocked down the display, but set off a shrieking alarm that had a twenty-something clerk running out to stop his thievery._  

…

“Smooth landing there, Potter!” jeered Draco.

...

 

 _“Oi!  You.  None o’ that,” the clerk shouted, grabbing Harry by the arm as he waved his wand to reset the display.  When he actually looked to find himself dragging a stammering, ramshackle Harry Potter, however, he changed his tune in an instant.  “Nothing to see,” he admonished the gathering crowd.  “Off you go!”  Amazingly, the crowd dispersed._  

 _“Sorry ‘bout them, Mr. Potter,” he said.  “People are idiots.”_  

 _When Harry tried to speak, it came out sounding rather like “butter shovel” and he collapsed onto his bad knee._  

 _“One of those days, eh?” said the clerk, hauling Harry up and steering him into the store.  “Thought I read something about that.  Why don’t you have a sit.  There you are.  I’m Xavier, by the by.  You just collect yourself and I’ll be right back.”_  

 _Harry slumped into the seat and closed his eyes._  

 _The clerk was soon back.  “Here you go Mr. Potter,” he handed Harry a mug of tea.  “Its not full and its not too hot, sir.”_  

 _Harry sat up and gratefully took the mug.  After a few sips, he managed a stuttered, “T-ta.”_  

 _“There you are,” said the clerk bracingly.  “Now.  I imagine you’re on the Alley for an errand?”_  

 _“Yu,” Harry managed to nod._  

 _“Probably not for Quidditch supplies?” he grinned._  

 _“Nnn toddy,” Harry shook his head sheepishly._  

 _“Right.  If you’d give me a clue, I’ll do my best to send you off in the right direction.  Yeah?”_

...

 

"Sheesh," grumbled Draco as he rubbed Harry's expanding stomach.  "This twat worships you..." 

Harry knew there was something ironic about Draco's statement, but was far too deeply submerged in his binge to think on it.

...

 

 _Harry looked down and tugged on his robe._  

 _“Robes.  That’s easy.  Madame Maulkin’s or Twilfit and Tatting?”_  

 _“Nnn,” Harry shook his head.  “Garbshh.”_  

 _“Come again?”_  

 _Harry rolled his eyes in frustration.  Then tugging on the bright orange shirt, tried again.  “Garbshhsh.”_  

_“Garrish Brothers?  Of course, much more stylish choice,” said the clerk.  Looking sideways at the door to the back room, he confided, “So long as you don’t have to please the boss.”_

 

**_…_ **

 

 _Xavier pushed the gilt door to Garrish Brothers open and steered Harry in.  “Mr. G!” he called, muttering to Harry, “Dead helpful sods, the G Brothers.  They’ll sort you.”_  

 _Out came a spry old wizard in modish velvet robes with a line of Lemurs kicking up the cancan along his belt.  He had a shock of steel grey hair and was clean shaven, but his bright brown eyes sparkled in a way reminiscent of Dumbledore, “Good morning young Master Xavier.  Who have we here?”_  

 _“Good morning to you, as well, Master Gareth.” said Xavier warmly.  “Master Gareth Garrish, may I introduce Mr. Harry Potter?  He’s robe shopping today and looking for your excellent assistance.  Isn’t that right Mr. Potter?”_  

 _Still in a wobbly, blinking fuddle, Harry looked grateful for the introduction.  “Yu-huh,” he agreed, nodding.  “Ta, Zasher.”_  

 _“My pleasure.  Wander in any time,” teased Xavier as he gently passed Harry’s forearm into the haberdasher’s custody._  

 _“You’ll be in good hands here with Master Garreth.  Isn’t that so, sir?”_  

 _“Not so young as some, but still capable,” genially assured Gareth Garrish._  

 _Having completed his mission, Xavier said his goodbyes._  

 _Gareth looked down at Harry’s arm.  “You are shaking like a leaf, young man!  It must have been quite an effort to get yourself here today,” he said kindly as he steered Harry to a comfortable set of chairs.  “Lucky for you, I just put on a pot of my favorite tea.  It’s a slow morning.  I’ll flip the ‘Busy With Tailoring’ sign so we won’t be bothered.  Unless you mind?”_  

 _Harry garbled a neutral something as his host disappeared behind the counter.  Minutes later, he returned carrying a fully laden tea.  A low little table trotted after him.  And a younger, duplicate of Mr. Garrish tagged after the table carrying a pile of parchment, quills and measuring tape.  The younger Mr. Garrish could have been his brother’s twin, but for salt-and-pepper grey hair and about 50% fewer wrinkles._  

 _After Mr. Garrish had the table arranged with the tea things, he gave introductions.  “Mr.  Potter, this is my baby brother Gawain Garrish.  He’s the designer in the family and I asked him to join us.”_  

 _Gawain gave Harry a wide grin.  “Pleased to meet you Mr. Potter.”_  

 _“-- co m’ Harr,” Harry broke in, waiving to show his invitation was meant for both men._  

 _“Very well, Harry,” said Gawain, not blinking at Harry’s garbled speech.  “In that case, you must call me Gawain and call my brother Garreth.  It’s so much easier that Mr. Garrish and Mr. Garrish.  That gets tedious.”_  

 _“I’ll play mother, shall I?” offered Garreth, as he poured the tea.  “Cream and sugar?”_  

 _When everyone was set with tea and snacks, Gawain set up his blue quill to take notes.  “We always like to have a chat with a new customer.  It gives me a chance to take a measure of the man as well as measurements, if you will.  Clothes are such a personal statement, after all, aren’t they?”_  

 _Before Harry could respond, Garreth asked, “How did you come to hear of us?”_  

 _Harry furrowed his brow.  “Um-le-door?” he articulated carefully._  

 _Both brothers beamed and said together, “Dear Albus…”_  

 _“Never a finer wizard,” praised Garreth._  

 _“One of our favorite customers,” confirmed Gawain._  

 _“A good friend,” put in Garreth._  

 _“He had a fondness for word games,” supplied Gawain._  

 _“He would visit every summer,” said Garreth._  

 _“Every Thursday afternoon during the school hols,” agreed Gawain._

_Sipping his tea, Harry watched back and forth as the brothers continued._  

 _“He always had time for tea and sweets,” said Garreth fondly._  

 _“We’d sort out his wardrobe,” said Gawain._  

 _“He had a fondness for socks,” confided Garreth._  

 _“And appreciated stylish hats,” Gawain added._  

 _“After we were done with clothes, he would bring us the most interesting games to play,” said Garreth._  

 _“Weetchette and Blabber,” remembered Gawain._  

 _“He loved word finds and crosswords,” said Garreth._  

 _“Sneak-So and Wonkredy,” Gawain ticked off more games._  

 _“He gave us our own Scrabble set,” said Garreth._  

 _“One summer, all we played were London Times crosswords,” said Gawain._  

 _Garreth nodded.  “The sneaky old coot forced us to read the Muggle news.”_  

 _“Couldn’t play without knowing about the Muggles,” said Gawain._  

 _“You could play, but you couldn’t win,” Garreth corrected._  

 _“That was the most Interesting summer.  When was it?” asked Gawain._  

 _“1969.  The Summer of Love,” said Garreth reverently._  

 _“Yes.  Yes.  1969.  Never forget it,” said Gawain._  

 _“42 Across.  ‘The Way of Mod Boutiques’,” said Garreth._  

 _“Carnaby Street.  What a find!” exclaimed Gawain._  

 _“We loved Carnaby Street,” said Garreth._  

 _“Albus dragged a mob of us to Carnaby Street on Friday nights,” said Gawain._  

_“The clubs.  The music.  The clothes,” Garreth gushed._

_“It was a real moment in style,” said Gawain._  

 _“Who knew clothes could speak of Love?,” said Garreth.  “More tea?”_  

 _Harry peeped agreeably as his tea and plate were refilled._  

 _“Mod style,” Gawain said with a bit of awe.  “We had never dreamed of robes with such bright happy colors.  Bold stripes, deco flowers, shiny bangles and bells...”_  

 _Garreth picked up the tale.  “Mini skirts and tight cuts.  It was revolutionary.  And believe me when I say, I brought every idea into our new Mod line of robes.”_  

 _“Garreth designed the very first short robes Diagon had ever seen,” said Gawain proudly._  

 _“And mini-robes,” Garreth added with a wink._  

 _“Mini-robes were a short lived trend,” sighed Gawain._  

 _“True.  But what a trend it was.  Do you remember Albus in his mini-robes and short-shorts?” laughed Garreth._  

 _Harry choked on his tea, laughing._  

_“And his platform sandals!” exclaimed Gawain.  “Who knew Albus had such long, long legs?”_

 ...

Watching, Draco muttered, “That explains so much…” 

Guzzling without restraint, Harry couldn’t help but grin.

…

 

 _Both brothers chuckled at the memory._  

 _“It really was a special time,” Garreth said sincerely._  

 _“Magical,” agreed Gawain with awe._  

 _“But all too short-lived,” concluded Garreth glumly.  “By the next spring, the dark rumors and strange happenings had begun.”_  

 _“People dressed for funerals in those dark times,” said Gawain._  

 _“The other shops gave up on bright colours, but our clothes never went back to black,” Garreth said stubbornly.  “We’ve updated the prints and modified them for our magical clientele.  To this day, we offer modern designs and bright colorful prints as our homage to peace and love.”_  

 _“Think of it as the anti-dark, if you will,” suggested Gawain.  “Our little one-shop counter-culture.”_  

 _Garreth leaned over to pat his older brother’s arm.  “Albus thought of it that way, too.  He always wore his political statements right on his sleeve for everyone to see.”_  

 _“He did, didn’t he?” Gawain sounded misty.  “No more nostalgia today, gentlemen.  Let’s get our young Harry sorted out.”_

_The tailors led a revived and happy looking Harry over to a private fitting area._  

_…_

 

“Shopping's a bore, Potter,” yawned Draco.  “Let’s skip to lunch.” 

Harry bit on his dummy long enough to say, “I didn’t know you could skip forward in here.” 

Draco twisted his wand and said suggestively, “You’d be surprised the things I could teach you.”

  
...


	10. Garrish Appeal (part two)

“Seriously.  You can skip time in a Pensieve?" Harry demanded.

Draco raised one eyebrow as if to say 'obviously' before raising and sweeping his wand up and over like a conductor.

Up to this point, Harry had been so intent on sucking every milligram of pleasure from his ridiculous goo-guzzling helmet that he had barely paid attention. He did, however, pay attention to the new floaty feeling that followed. The memory world inside the Pensieve sped up and blurred as if it were underwater. Bubbles appeared to encase people and objects as they surged through the memory. Then Draco flicked his wand and they were suddenly back on solid ground. Harry only stayed on his feet because his tormentor kept a firm grip on his elbow.

Back on solid memory ground, Harry resumed sucking his delicious goo, barely paying attention to the events he had so recently lived.

 

_The Pensieve solidified again in real time. Gawain Garrish was explaining how every item in the Garrish Man-ternity Line was charmed to magically modify itself for optimal fit and comfort as the wearer grew. “So you see, my dear Mr. Potter, your growing wardrobe dilemma is not as singular as you imagine it to be. Happily,” a grinning Gawain said with an expansive flourish, “we have a ‘tailor made’ solution ready for you.”_

 

As Pensieve-Harry chuckled at the overdone pun, Draco smacked his palm against his forehead. “Unbelievable!" Shaking his head, Draco lamented to himself, "I sent Potter to the only shop on Diagon prepared to suit his mounting girth because they cater to **_pregnant_ ** wizards.  Luck like this simply **_isn't possible_**." Draco grabbed Harry's arm again and announced "I'll not waste time on this rubbish."

 

_The watery Pensieve world pooled into bobbing bubbles as time sped ahead again. A flurry of activity at the counter centered around a mounting pile of purchases.  A bubble encasing Xavier bobbed into the shop, enlarged to include Pensieve-Harry, and bobbed out through an Alley populated with speedy bubbles filled with shoppers. Even in the bubble, it was easy to see that Pensieve-Harry's new outfit flattered him.  He still wobbled, but smiled and stood tall as he allowed himself to be escorted to lunch._

 

"Nobody has luck like this," Draco grumbled as he dragged Harry to follow.

 

_The quick flowing world shifted into real time as Xavier and Pensieve-Harry ordered their meals. Pensieve-Harry reached for his water goblet with a quaking hand and knocked it over, to shatter and spill across the floor. The waiter cast immediate charms to clean up the mess, but Pensieve-Harry still looked mortified. “S-s-sorr-ee,” he stuttered after the waiter, who had already rushed off to take care of other matters._

_Xavier patted Harry's hand and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry Harry. Nobody is judging you.”_

 

“Nobody is judging you,” Draco mocked. He elbowed Harry to pull his attention from his binge and told him, “Don’t listen to that punter, Potter. _**Everyone**_ judges _**everyone**_ , and _**especially you**_. See, people are watching there, there and there,” Draco pointed out gawkers in the crowd. “Oh look, here comes lunch. Let’s see what kind of a spectacle Spastic Splotter makes.”

 

_Pensieve-Harry picked up a spoon and appeared to concentrate very hard. Despite best efforts, his hand jerked randomly, splashing tomato soup everywhere.  He couldn't manage to bring one spoonful to his mouth._

_Xavier politely ignored the disastrous process until Harry gave up in exasperation. At that point, Xavier looked up at the mess and told him, "We need to work out Plan B, mate, because Plan A is not working."_

_Pensieve-Harry shook his head unhappily. "No good..." He looked around at the gawkers and pinked. "G-go home..." He started to push his chair back._

_Xavier placed a kind hand over Harry's and insisted, "It'll be ok."  He slid out his wand and asked, "Will you permit me to help?"_

_Pensieve-Harry gave a jerky shrug, after which Xavier cast Notice-Me-Not and cleansing charms. He transfigured a napkin into a man-sized bib, scooted close and began to feed Pensieve-Harry his soup._

_Pensieve-Harry pulled back uncomfortably._

_Xavier stopped to ask, "Problem?"_

_Pensieve-Harry scrunched his face and said, "B- how... Why?"_

_"Did I tell you about my kid brother?"_

_Pensieve-Harry shook his head._

_"His name is Sam.  He's a great kid.  He's got a big heart and a better sense of humour.  He's also epileptic.  His potions usually work pretty well and he has a lot of good days. But some days are very bad.  On those days, he can't feed himself. He's a stubborn bugger; never asks. I just help. It's easier that way." He looked questioningly at Pensieve-Harry. "OK?"_

_Pensieve-Harry smiled sheepishly. "T-ta," he stammered as he allowed his kind new acquaintance to feed him lunch._

 

Draco could not watch this sugarcoated love fest any longer.  Every muscle in his body strummed with stress. He made a conscious effort not to stomp in frustration. _Gah!_ he thought. _Had Potter **actually** been born under a lucky star? Did he have a freaking Fairy Godmother? Was dark magic involved?_   The only thing keeping him from screaming was that he didn't want Potter to see his frustration.  Looking over, he was relieved to find Potter in an ignorant, bloated, sucking haze.

“Potter!” he barked.

Potter blinked blearily. “Mmnh?”

“You’re pathetic,” he sneered, jabbing Potter’s distended middle.

“G’roff!” Harry squawked, batting Malfoy’s hand away.  He rubbed his abused flesh and pressed up a burp in protest.

Once again top dog, Malfoy renewed his sneer. “Time to go, Splotty.  Do try not to crash land.”  Incensed over his abysmal failure to publicly embarrass Potter, Draco yanked them roughly out of the Pensieve and let go of Potter at the perfectly wrong moment, launching him to crash face down on the floor.

“Smooth move, Porker,” drawled Draco after his own perfect landing.

Harry had landed face first, slumped on his left shoulder and hip, limbs spread akimbo and belly squashing out to the right.  His chugging helmet had fallen off and both bottles were empty.  Draco felt a small thrill to see that Harry had sucked both bottles dry; it shouldn't have been possible. Contrary to Draco's instruction to save room for dinner, Harry had managed to fill his stomach to an overflowing, impressively inflated globe of flesh. "My, oh my. Look at what an insatiable sucker you've been," Draco murmured.   He nudged Harry's leg with the toe of his boot, to which Harry's only response was a snorting snuffle. Kneeling down, he smoothed his hand over the tight bulge of Potter's belly. A shiver thrilled his core. “Good Lord!” he breathed.

He broke away from his fascination.  Standing, he cast a quick Mediscan, which showed the prat was just sleeping.

“Just as well,” Draco spat, shaking his head. He poured himself a drink and sat to rethink his strategy after Potter’s disappointingly -- dismally! -- pleasant trip to Diagon.

After downing three fingers of Firewhiskey and pouring four more, he pointed accusingly to his unconscious victim.  “You, Potter, are a pain in my arse. _**How is it**_ that you _**always**_ land on your feet?”  Snickering at his face-planted victim, he amended, “Well. Not always, yeah?"  He stalked over to hulk above Potter.  "It's refreshing to see you fall flat on your face for once.”  

He paced and drank and brooded.

After  his second oversized drink, his speech began to deteriorate.  “Watchin’ you stagger through th’ freak’n la-la lilly love fest on Diagon was a bore, I mus’say. Not… no one treats the Sorry Saviour like the pariah you should be. You’re a abomnshion. An abonamation. A bugbear! Be a different story, y’know, if you wer’a Malfoy. No pity fer Malfoys. None. Plenty o’ pity fer Potters, mind. Hmph. Tha’ proves it: Potters ‘re pit’fll. Pitty-full!”

He stepped back, fumbled to lite a fag and took a long drag, hoping to clear his head.  

“This'll be better," he decided. "Don’ wanna’ waste time over your stupid days. Must’a gone soft. I owe ya more... action ‘an ‘at.” He squinted and forced himself to concentrate. “Action… an onslaught. And I have the perfect weapon. Now you’re a qualified glutton, it’s time fer Phase Two."

He stabbed out his fag, spun round and summoned, "Trixie!"

When Draco's diminutive collaborator appeared, he smirked wickedly. "Need yer ssservices, Trixie m'dear,” he slurred. “Get yer kit and prepare fer my ssssummons."

Trixie clapped happily as she popped away. “Tonight, tonight!” peeped the empty space where she had been.


	11. Eat the Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: possible het!creature!dominatrix squick. Skip to ch 12 to avoid details.

Still on the floor, Harry started to rouse.  Draco’s hostile rant eventually cut through the fuzz in Harry's muzzy brain.   He heard the impending storm in his captor's tone.  He tried to dive into his occlumency maze to refresh his defenses, but was distracted by the peculiar snap of House Elf Apparition.  He heard Draco's voice, "... prepare fer my sssummons," followed by a treacle-sweet voice squealing, “Tonight!”

Draco stalked toward him and stamped his boot mere inches from Harry’s head.  “Wake up!” he shouted.  When Harry didn't respond immediately, Draco ground the heel of his boot down on Harry's hand.  “I said WAKE UP!”

“Ouighk!” Harry squealed in pain.  Nanny Draco's relatively benign verbal taunting over the past few weeks had lulled him and Harry was caught unprepared for the crushing pain.  He pulled his injured hand in and held the other one out protectively. “Kay. Jus'a’mo’. M’wake.”

“Now!” Draco insisted, and hit Harry with a sharp stinging hex to his already injured hand.  "Drag your fat arse off the floor this instant!"

Harry rolled clumsily away, wincing at the pain. “Oof!” he complained.  Rolling over his swollen stomach with his injured hand was more painful than the stinging hex.  Disoriented and illogical, he thought, _Wuh?  Guess he's provoked.  This is a first...  must be progress of a sort.  Maybe I should try to twist the knife a bit more._  Recklessly -- stupidly -- he focused on his small victory of having agitated Malfoy and gave Draco a smug smile.

Already furious that Potter's Diagon Alley outing hadn’t been an excruciating embarrassment, Harry’s insolence shoved Draco over the edge.  “Enough!” he roared.  He slashed his wand harshly to wrench Potter up high, bind his wrists tightly and drop him to dangle from bindings.  He slashed his wand horizontally to slap Potter’s face so hard his head flopped over to his shoulder.  “Wipe that smirk off your obnoxious face!”

Indeed, Harry couldn't help but grimace from the combination of pain in his hand, his wrists, his cheek, his neck and his sloshing, stuffed stomach.  Hanging in a daze of pain and confusion, Harry was properly afraid for the first time in weeks. _Ugh.  Maybe I shouldn't have twisted that knife…_

“You!” Draco spat.  “You think this is a bloody game, do you Potter?”  He pushed violently against Harry’s chest, setting him to swing from his bound wrists.  Draco ripped Harry's brand new shirt off and growled, “I've been too kind; I made this too easy for you.  But no more.”  He jabbed his wand into the Heirloom band on Potter’s uninjured wrist.  He hissed, “ _Audite hereditatem.  Non offeretis super eo suaviter disponente, oboedientiam exspectant, super filios incredulitatis!"_   

The normally invisible Black Family heirlooms on Harry’s wrist and upper arm glowed a sickly green and burnt like acid.  Harry yelped as a harsh rip in the magic promised cruel retribution in the event of disobedience.  His suddenly silent mind echoed as the encouraging voices of Harry’s parental choir ceased.  With the end of the guidance charms, Harry’s sense of equanimity vanished.  The potency of his Cheering Charm withered.  Weeks of repressed doubt and resentment hit him head on.  The loss was staggering.  Until it was gone, he had had no idea he'd come to rely so heavily upon the comforting background murmur of instructions to ease his compliance.  On his own, he wanted to fight, to struggle, to refuse.  

The heirlooms flared a bloody vermilion and the corrosive pain spiked.  He broke out in a sweat, somehow understanding without being told that the heirlooms would now automatically punish his slightest infraction.

Harry’s face contorted as his reawakened rage warred against his instinct to avoid punishment and his intention to frustrate Draco by refusing to react.  He strained to hold his tongue and did nothing more than stare hatefully.  

Draco watched with evil glee as the tumult of emotions played across Harry's face.  “ _There’s_ the real you, Potter,” he sneered.  “I’ve missed you.  I hardly recognized the serene and biddable you.  Now that you have some training under your belt,” he pushed up under Harry’s belly and made a great show of peering under his belt, “-- and I see you have excess space there due to your excellent training -- you will have to comply without assistance.  Any imbecile should be able to follow a few simple rules to avoid punishment, hm?”  

He pressed into Harry’s space, brushing up against Harry’s belly, and taunted, “Any imbecile but you.  You, Potter, are an absurd martyr who will suffer the consequences of disobedience before you bend over and take it.  Isn't that so?”

Harry grit his teeth.

Draco pressed closer.  Flush up against Harry’s flabby belly, practically nose-to-nose, he looked deep into Harry’s eyes.  “I can see you thinking on it.   _Tut-tut-tut._  You aren't going to be _uncooperative_ , are you?  That would be a terrible shame after you've bent over so far to comply with your submissive role.  I _almost_ feel badly…”  Draco pinched Harry’s chubby cheek and backed away, giggling madly.  “Almost, not quite.”

“I suppose it would only be sporting of me to tell you that defiance will now trigger punishment from your Black Heirlooms.  But you already knew that, Potty, didn't you?  So here’s a bonus tip:  it’s double or nothing.  On top of the Heirloom punishments, I will cast _oboedio_ if I feel you've... forgotten your manners.”  He shrugged easily.  “I quite like _oboedio_ , so, please do express yourself freely.”  

Not eager martyr himself, Harry kept his mouth shut.

"No smart comeback?" Draco taunted.  "I'd  have thought you'd jump on the chance for double of anything these days, as greedy as you've grown.  Hmm.  Then again, jumping must be quite an effort for a person of your girth.  Perhaps you are simply too lazy?”

Harry pressed his lips into a stubborn flat line.

"Come now, Mr. Raised-By-Wolves.  Surely you've learnt by now that proper manners do not permit you to sulk silently.  Propriety requires a polite, verbal response including 'thank you' and 'sir'."

When Harry stayed mute, Draco wiggled his wand and jeered, "Tick-tock, Wolfiekins.  Last chance..."

Knowing he’d be punished no matter what, Harry spit out, “I'll _thank you_ to sod off, _sir_.” Predictably, this triggered another round of the heirloom burn, which now spread beyond the hidden artifacts on his arm to his shoulder and torso.

“Excellent!” Draco crowed. "I knew I could rely on your idiocy.”  Draco hissed _obedio_ , then counted slowly to ten before stopping the curse with _finite incantatem_.   

Just like the first night, _obedio_ shot pain into Harry’s feet and whirled up his spine to accumulate in his tongue.  Combined with the heirloom burn, _obedio_ ripped through the last vestiges of his Cheering Charm like so much tissue.  He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think; he would certainly die.

As if from a great distance, Draco continued to monologue.  “Ha!  I do _so_ love working with a _dependable_ imbecile.  Thank you for giving me cause to remind you of _oboedio_ ’s force.  Mind you, that was just a taste.  Any further infraction will result in significantly longer application.”  He tapped a finger on his pursed lips.  “I wonder, Potty.  You've turned into such a perfect glutton these past weeks.  Have you become a glutton for punishment, too?  Hm?”

Hanging from his harness, Harry drooped and shook.  This pain was far worse than he remembered.  Not only did it last longer, this time, the pain reverberated throughout every cell of his larger, fleshier body.  A chill ran over him as Malfoy spelled off the rest of his clothes.  He continued to tremble in the curse’s aftermath.  He felt further exposed by the jiggling of his naked white flesh.  

“You feeble sod.  Just look at you.  If only you could control yourself…  You really do _need_ discipline, don’t you?”  Malfoy tutted in faux concern.  Then, as if he felt much put upon by the imposition, he conceded, “Somebody has to look out for you, don’t they?  I suppose... if I _must_ …”  He flicked his wand at Harry, hitting him in the center of his chest with the sharp hard edge of a buckle.  A leather strap followed the buckle like a whip, splitting and wrapping itself around his chest, over his shoulders, down his back to his waist and hips, coming full circle and buckling at the center.  The whole contraption cinched mercilessly, digging uncomfortably into his flesh.  New straps wrapped themselves around his thighs, arms and neck, before buckling and squeezing tight.  An invisible force on his collar jerked him to attention and  wrenched his wrist cuffs behind back where they latched together.  

“Lovely!  Truly lovely!” Draco assessed.  “You mustn't miss such a lovely sight, Splotty.”

He conjured a dressing mirror before Harry, showing him a full length view of himself, starkers and trembling violently, his soft flesh bulged out of the sharply studded leather and iron harness of a submissive.  The harness was painfully tight.  The belt cinched cruelly under his heavy belly; the crotch straps pinched the soft tissue of his balls.  He tried pressing up on his toes to ease the pressure, but somehow that tightened the belt and chest straps agonisingly.

The sight was riveting.  It was unbearable.  He looked away.

“Where are your manners, Mr. Raised-by-Wolves?  I've given you this lovely gift of discipline, after all,” Malfoy prompted. "What must a polite pet say?"

After working so hard to bear up under Malfoy’s machinations, Harry couldn't keep it together any longer.  Trembling, sore and throbbing in arousal, his heart raced and he gasped for breath.  He was strung up like some straining hunk of BDSM blubber.  He felt a raw, angry hole where the parental choir previously chanted.   He had no hope of hiding his emotions.  He had no idea what would come next.  All he could think was,   _Bloody fuck.  What the sodding fuck?  Where did Nanny Draco go?_  

He sobbed his compliance, “Th-th-nk yoo-hoo.”  

“Not so smug now, are you Potter?”  Draco smirked as he took in the view of Harry Potter, broken, fattened and strung up for market.  His roving eyes locked on Harry’s crotch and he swirled a lewdly pointing finger at Harry's cock.  “Not smug, no," he snorted. "But you are _un-de-ni-a-bly interested_ …”

Interested?  A quick glance down was blocked by his protruding middle, but there in the mirror Harry could see it.    _Hard?  Bloody fuck.  He really was, wasn’t he?_  Amongst the multitude of sensations Harry hadn't yet processed, he felt his arousal.  Despite -- or was it because of? -- his current pain and indignity, Harry’s cock was rock hard and bobbing hopefully.  A full-body blush blazed out from his searing center and left Harry blank from loss of blood to his brain.

Draco stepped close and delicately ran his hand under and around Harry’s sweaty cock.  “You sick, sick bastard,” he cooed into Harry's ear.  He circled his thumb around Harry’s head and milked the precum from his slit.

Harry practically choked.  He gasped for breath.

“You _love_ this," Draco gloated.

Harry’s cock throbbed in Malfoy's gentle hand.  He squeezed his eyes tight, but couldn't control of the situation.  A burp escaped and he started to hiccup.  His stomach jiggled with every hic; it gurgled and growled.  His pulse pounded.  Despite his stubbornly closed eyes, this desperate, mortifying moment was endless.

“Ha!”  Draco crowed.  “You are bound and horny and -- still! -- a glutton for all of it!  Lovely to see that your greed will not be distracted.”  He grabbed Harry’s harness and yanked it hard to test it at the belt, the shoulder strap, and again at the crotch.  He wedged a finger between Harry’s neck and the tight collar.  “Hmm.  That’ll do,” he approved.  Then continuing his monologue, “I’ve neglected your discipline; it’s long since overdue.  Believe me Potty, this harness is just a start.”  He produced a brass ring from his pocket and spun it on the tip of his finger.  He levitated it in front of Harry’s face, where it morphed into a gyro sphere and grew larger than Harry himself.

After the huge gyro sphere planted itself to the floor, Draco incanted _boundus extendus_ and Harry’s wrist and ankle cuffs snapped out, stretching him out like a starfish strung across the middle sphere.

Nearly delirious, Harry thought _I’m Di Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.  Hermione would be so proud._

Stretched out in all his naked swollen glory, Harry was totally exposed.  He was a big, fat, captive target. Harry’s skin crawled and his stomach heaved.  His bobbing cock smacked up against his belly.  He didn’t know what to think.   He simply had no frame of reference for this level of shit.   

Smirking, Malfoy reached out to rub Harry’s sloshing, drink-filled belly.  His hands moved surely and soothingly and gradually encouraged the release of several powerful belches.  He laughed derisively.  “Is that what pigs sound like, Potter, when they try to sing?  I think it must be, because you certainly are a pig.”  Moving from gentle to rough, he began grabbing Harry’s spare tire and the fat bulging over his belt.  He pinched nipples and the fat surrounding Harry’s belly button.  With every handful and every pinch, he taunted, “Look at all of your fat, Splotty.  So big, so round, so soft.  It’s just so fun to play with your flab.”  He finished off with a cruel pinch to Harry’s cheek.  “So chubby!” he cooed.”  

Harry tried not to flinch as Malfoy kept pinching and grabbing.  He knew he’d be speckled with bruises the next day.

When Malfoy finally seemed satisfied that he had pinched and insulted sufficiently, Draco stepped back and called, “Trixie!” A tiny blonde female popped in with a double-height stool and well-laden table.

Based on the sound when she apparated, Harry expected a House Elf.  Other than her height, however, Trixie was like no House Elf Harry had ever seen. Where House Elves were wrinkled and withered, Trixie was ripe and curved. Where the features of House Elves were so exaggerated as to be grotesque, Trixie had the magnified round beauty of an anime character.  She had wet, cherry-kissing lips and long eyelashes that fluttered like butterfly wings. Her golden blonde locks bounced from a perky tail at the top of her head. Her curvy figure was showcased by a beaded pink bikini with gauzy strips of fabric flowing to wrist and ankle bands to form the suggestion of sleeves and pants. With her sexy round eyes and breasts and hips, Trixie was a beautiful porn star of a pixie.  Like a cartoon _I Dream of Jeannie_.  

Harry’s brain and stomach -- and all of his other parts -- jammed. He couldn’t begin to imagine where time with Trixie might go.

“Potter!” snapped Draco. “Close your mouth.” Seeing no response from Harry, Draco chucked his chin so forcefully that Harry saw stars.

Harry kept his mouth shut and blinked until his vision cleared.

Like a perfect parody of a gentleman, Draco offered Trixie’s hand to Harry and introduced her. “Harry Potter, may I introduce you to the alluring Miss Trixie. Trixie, this is Harry Potter. Potter, if you haven’t guessed, Miss Trixie is a Harem Elf and she is here to... assist you in your endeavors this evening.”

Trixie dipped into a coquettish curtsy.

Harry tried not to let his jaw drop again. He couldn't quite kickstart his brain. “H-harem elf?” he croaked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “That's right.  I forgot.  Poor, pathetic Potter was raised by wolves and, apparently, has never experienced the pleasures of a proper Wizarding brothel.  Tragic.  Suffice it to say that a Harem Elf is a rare and exotic magical creature who lives to serve the personal sexual pleasures of Wizardkind, just as House Elves live to serve a Wizarding homes.”

Harry thought about that. _Oh.  OH._  He’d heard stories, but thought they were myths. He still didn’t understand how Trixie’s service fit into this evening’s activities. “Bu- how…”

“How shall Trixie serve you tonight?” Draco filled in for him. “I won't spoil the surprize.  That wouldn't be fun.  You’ll just have to wait to find out.”  He turned to address the elf, “Trixie, my dear, he is all yours.  Do your worst.”

“My worst?”  Trixie clapped excitedly.  “Oh, _thank you_ , Master!  My worst, my worst!  Trixie loves her mischief.”  Glowing happily, she chanted, “My worst, my worst!  Trixie is bad, bad, bad!”   Wings popped out of her back and, singing about naughty fun, she flew around Harry.  

She drew her nails down Harry’s back in sharp little petting motions that were on the wrong side of pleasure.

She flittered over to his side and licked the shell of his ear.   “Do you like to play, Mr. Potter, sir?”

Harry hesitated, anxious not to trigger punishment.  He looked over to Malfoy, who had retreated to his club chair and waved a permissive hand toward Trixie.   He looked back at Trixie and gave an inarticulate noise of affirmation.

“Goody, goody!” she squealed and clapped.  “Silly, wicked games for Mr. Potter, Sir!”

She flew over her table, picked up a glossy fuchsia game box on which her likeness reclined and winked. “Trixie’s Game De Jure ™.”  She floated it in front of Harry.  “How shall we play tonight?  Me wonders, me wonders!!”  When she opened the box, there was a silver contraption on the left, a plate in the middle, and a large egg timer on the right.  “Oh, goody!!” Trixie clapped.  “Trixie loves to play Eat the Clock!!”  She turned her bright eyes toward Harry and asked, “Does Mr. Potter, sir, know how to play Eat the Clock?”

Harry shook his head.

Trixie beamed.  “Excellent!  First time’s is always the best, Mr. Potter, sir!  Is easy to play.”  She pulled the unidentified contraption out of the box and showed it to Harry.  “The first part is the Teaser, sir.   _This ring_ slides on Mr. Potter Sir’s thing, sir.  And _this part_ plays with go-nads, sir.  And _this part here_ strokes Sir’s thing, sir.  It’s all very pleasing, sir.  But you see, sir, this first ring, sir, stops you from coming, sir.”

She pulled out the plate and the egg timer together.

“Part two is the Race, Sir.  Before the Teaser will let Sir come, Sir must eat all the food on this plate before time runs out, sir.  Is delicious and easy, sir.  Trixie will feed you, sir.  If time runs out before you finish, the timer will flip and you start with a full plate, sir.  So you see, sir -- you can’t lose this game, sir!”  She cocked her head and asked sweetly, “Any questions, sir?”

Harry couldn't think.

“Very good, sir.  Here we go, sir!” Trixie continued happily.  She flew down to apply the Teaser to Harry’s cock and balls.  It wasn't unpleasant.  Truly quite something, actually.  It stimulated.  It demanded.  It restricted.  All in all, it stole all of Harry’s attention.

Harry barely noticed Trixie begin to feed him.  He was still mostly full from chugging his drink, but the food was wonderful and he ate automatically. The plate was big but not impossibly so.  And yet, he was not quite done when a clarion alarm rang.

Trixie snapped her fingers and a second heaping plate appeared.  “Round Two!” she announced.

Harry had a foggy notion of where this game might go.  He forced himself to eat more quickly despite feeling quite full.  Yet, the Teaser enticed and he couldn't help trying to twist, to wiggle, to angle his hips, his buttox, _anything_ to get just that slightest additional sensation.  He needed more and couldn’t find it.

Harry might have finished his second plate had he not strained and paused with two bites to go.

Round Three seemed impossible.  Nearly stuffed, with the Teaser still enticing, Harry ate his way through Round Three even slower than Round One.

When the clarion alarm rang for the third time, Trixie lit up.  “Mr. Potter, sir.  You didn’t eat 90% of your food, sir.  Now it’s time for a Penalty Round, sir!”

“Penalty Round?”  By now Harry was stuffed well past his limits and nearly blind with arousal.  He doubted he could survive much more of this game.  “But I’m... I'm too full,” Harry whinged.  “I just can’t.  So... I lose the game?  How does this work?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Potter, sir,” Trixie peeped brightly.  “Everyone wins with Trixie’s games.  There is no losing with Trixie, sir.”  Trixie pulled a familiar purple vial from her cleavage and poured it down Harry’s throat before he could protest.  She hammered Harry’s overstuffed stomach with delicate fists while the potion worked its magic.  Jostled by her hammering and pulled by his tight bonds, Harry felt his growth more intensely this time.  His stomach emptied and he watched in the mirror as a plump new layer of fat bulged further out over his belt and spread all the way to his nose and fingers and toes.  His chub smoothed his skin, making him look younger.

Already teased to the brink, he somehow throbbed hotter and fuller at the sight of own his swelling body.

And suddenly he didn’t care what he looked like or how hot that might be, because his stomach slid from comfortable to empty to a hollow insatiable hunger.  He became wrenchingly hungry as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.  Despite being bloated and constrained by tight bonds, he felt he had boundless space to fill.  He craved food desperately.  He couldn't think of anything he would rather do than eat.

“Please,” he begged.  

He was thrilled when Trixie jammed a feeding tube down his throat.  He rejoiced as he felt the tube cool with the drink and his stomach begin to fill.  He allowed himself to forget about mindfuckery and consequences and to take what joy he could from the good and right and satisfying feel of his stomach filling after having been so starved for so long.

The satisfaction in his filling stomach was happiness come to life.

At least, he thought he was happy being filled.  Then Trixie attended to his cock. _Buggering fuck.  That.  This.  So this is happiness._ Trixie’s provocations were sublime.  He took it all in.   

And still there was more.

His stomach continued to fill and his arousal continued to rise beyond sublime.  Overflowing with so much experience and sensation, and having no outlet, Harry’s eyes began to tear and he gave himself up.  He zoned out. Nothing existed but this. His only future was now. His internal exclamations of pleasure morphed into soft, incoherent grunts of ecstasy.

Beyond bliss.  This was Nirvana.  Infinite ecstasy exploded in a flash.  The Big Bang.


	12. Day Fifty-Seven

 

A lot of things had changed by Harry’s 57th night at Malfoy’s mercy.

During his first nights caught in Malfoy’s trap, Harry mostly felt like a mouse being played with by a cat. Or a marionette controlled by a puppeteer. Either way, he remembered being intensely scrutinized and manipulated. Well, that and the Tsunami of pain and pleasure that came with wave after wave of food and sucking and touching.

After Trixie came into the picture, however, it was as if she threw both cat and mouse onto an irresistible, inescapable roller coaster of sensation. She may have called Malfoy ‘Master’, but in truth, Trixie was in charge. Trixie’s rides drove them both to terrifying heights of whimsical temptation, inevitably followed by excruciating surges of feeding and control. And pleasure. Always pleasure.

She didn’t seem to have a set schedule, but Trixie joined them several nights each week. Whenever she appeared, she brought the unexpected. New games every night: Apples to Apple Pie, I Spy a Big Guy, Monopo-Rolly-Polly, Gobblestones, Submissive Pursuits, Candyland, ScatterOrgies, Chutes-and-Platters, Inflating Snap!  The versatile Harem Elf changed her manner with her costumes. One night she would be a sweet little thing in pigtails and Mary Janes.  The next time she might be a powerful lion tamer, complete with top hat, thigh-high boots, and whip.

Trixie was a true virtuoso. Every game pushed Harry in more outrageous, more humiliating ways.  And, somehow, she always made him want more.  Within her first week, her special brand of mischief wielded two major changes.

First, Harry conceded the futility of resisting Trixie's machinations. She might sound sweet, her games might appear silly, but there were no loopholes. He couldn’t play Trixie the way he played Malfoy. She didn’t budge one iota, so he stopped trying to budge her. Harry couldn’t be arsed to feel badly about submitting to Trixie. Fact was, Malfoy had no control of her, either. Not really. So Malfoy relaxed, too, and they both counted on Trixie to tempt Harry to excruciating, humbling extremes.

Second, Trixie drilled her way to the center of Harry’s psyche. Through the sheer repetition of endless indescribable orgasms, Trixie’s games became instinctive. Harry came to associate appetizing aromas and the sensory pleasures of eating and being overfull with pure sexual arousal. Without knowing why, he could not enter a bakery, walk past a restaurant or so much as Floo an order for a take-out meal without developing a major branch of wood. His only saving grace was that his eager physical reactions were a private discomfort hidden under his ever thickening layers of fat and his loose Man-ternity wardrobe.

A third, more subtle development snuck up but was never acknowledged. As Trixie’s kaleidoscope of hog-tying bondage gear, tight spots, gooey substances, imposing goals and punishments and illusory ‘rewards’ already pushed Harry past every possible boundary, as Harry stopped resisting, and as Malfoy relaxed, game nights with Trixie became something of a bonding experience for the two men.  No matter the power dynamic, there was something about having wrestled together in the molasses swamp and survived to tell the tale, for example, that tightened any connection.

With Trixie in charge of game nights, Draco felt free to conduct less scripted activities on his own nights.  And so, on Trixie’s nights off, it was Draco’s turn for hands-on fun and he simply went with his instincts.

*********

So that is why, on November 19, 2001, when Harry woke up alone in Malfoy’s lair, he heaved a sigh that was neither fear nor anger, but merely appraising.

Once again, he found himself submerged in the overstuffed chaise longue Draco had taken to seating him on. He gazed morosely at the rolling hills of his mossy silk shirt.   _Looks like I’m trying to hide my pet sea turtle under my shirt. Ugh. I feel like a beached whale. ‘Feel like?’  Phth... 306 pounds at last count, I **am** a whale. Sodding Malfoy’s more than doubled my weight. Doubled! It shouldn’t be possible, but that’s the thing about magic, yeah?_

His entire body had been overtaken by layer upon layer of soft, puffy flesh. Most of his weight, though, had clumped around his midriff. If 50 pounds had spread over his arms and legs and bum, he was pretty sure the other hundred was mounded around his middle. _Even when I’m not full to bursting with food, I look pregnant. And fat. Very fat and very pregnant._ His big ball of a belly jut forward proudly and spread round his sides to his back, molding into a squashy round tire that was literally as big as an auto tire. Everything else had swollen to match. From his chubby fingers and toes, to his pert pecs, to the globes of his arse, every bit of him had rounded out.

 _Not just as big as a whale, I’m clumsy as an ox, too._ It was no longer just Malfoy’s stupid hexes that got in his way. His center of balance moved forward with his growing gut, making him lean back for balance and try not to waddle. Lugging twice his normal self took double the effort. Eventually, the simple act of walking came to be extreme sport. His top-heavy conglomeration of wayward parts was a stranger to him. His thick thighs rubbed together, forcing his gait to widen and his pace to slow down. He felt tied down by his trousers, which were pulled one way by his rubbing thighs and tugged the other way by his bobbing round arse. He knew he must look ridiculous, but couldn’t help swinging his arms in a desperate attempt to work up some forward momentum. Of course, his chubby arms chafed against his sweaty armpits and bumped into the rolls at his sides. His stomach -- well, he wasn’t quite sure what it was doing. Depending on everything else, his stomach bounced up and down or side to side. He could feel fat flesh wobbling and jiggling everywhere from his calves to his moobs to his chipmunk cheeks.

It wasn’t just walking, he thought. Even sitting sucked. He had to brace himself and sit carefully, for fear of landing with bruising force if he forgot about his unaccustomed weight. After crushing a cafe chair like it was made out of toothpicks, was vigilant to make sure his chair was sturdy enough. Getting up was worse, complicated not only by his weight but also his inability to lean forward. Sitting wasn’t even restful. His clothes tugged and his bulk wedged and pinched. His legs splayed and he had no good place to rest his arms. He was constantly rearranging himself, trying to find a comfortable position.

Dressing, too, was challenging. Even with the Garrish Brothers’ generously-sized clothes, he simply couldn’t reach to tie his shoes, or pull on his pants. Eventually, he learned charms for most everything.

Whatever he did, all the action and effort left him breathless, sweaty, and, sometimes just a bit nauseous. It was all hard work. It wasn’t as if he had built up any muscle to go with a his new bulk.  He was bruised from bumping into things, his feet hurt, he had constant back aches, and he was exhausted. If it were not for Malfoy’s compulsion forcing him to go out and be seen, he was sure he would spend most of his days napping. As it was, he was cluelessly out and about every day.

 _Merlin, I’m annoying when I whinge like this. Stop it. Malfoy will be here to annoy me soon enough._  Harry thought back to the Boy’s bright smile and redoubled his cheering charm.

Speak of the devil, Malfoy Apparated in just then, looking quite pleased with himself. He summoned a table carrying the evening’s feast and smirked down at Harry. “Back again so soon?  It’s so good of you to be punctual.”

Harry smiled wanly and told him,“You’re getting predictable.”

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Draco agreed easily. He tilted his head a bit as he inspected Harry from toe to top, then twisted a finger into Harry’s hair to tug it. “Your hair is curling as it gets longer,” he commented idly.

“I’m sure I need a haircut,” Harry sighed.

“Not necessarily.” Draco said haughtily, dragging his knuckle around Harry’s undeniably chubby cheek, then landed his hand to cup Harry’s moob. “The curls fit the whole cherubic thing you have going.”

“Cherubic?” Harry snorted.

Malfoy considered. “Bacchus, if you prefer.” He waved his wand regally and decreed, “I dub you Pigster, mighty god of feasts and overindulgence.”  With another wand motion, a giant palm frond hovered by the foot of the chaise longue and began fanning Harry.

Malfoy handed Harry a looking glass and baited, “See for yourself, Pigster. It suits you.”

Harry knew from the breeze that his clothes had vanished. He looked in the mirror and groaned when he found his hair curled in ringlets and crowned with an ivy garland. Malfoy had painted his chubby cheeks pink and his lips a shining cherry -- cherry lips, by the way, that transformed his frown into a disturbingly kissable pout. As for clothes, the only things covering his rotund glory were a collection of gold jewelry and the tracing of fine black hair that started at his belly button and crested out of view.

Malfoy laughed when Harry moved the mirror to peer beyond his belly. “Really, Potter? After all we’ve been through, you are still as modest as a maiden. Never fear, fair lass, your modesty is preserved.” He took the mirror and directed it so that Harry could see for himself that his flowing belly and fat thighs covered all evidence of his manhood.  “See?”

“Thanks.  Sir,” Harry choked out, not at all reassured to see himself from that particular angle.

“Poor Pigster. Are you not happy?” Malfoy queried impishly. “That just won’t do. You’ve the stature of a god, after all. I insist you be pleased. Here,” he conjured a large fig leaf and lay it across Harry’s lap. “Happy now?”

“Ever so happy, thanks,” Harry replied with a grimace.

Malfoy grinned with playful malice. “It’s my pleasure. Truly.”

Malfoy sat himself next to Harry and made a game of peeking under the serving covers and wafting the steaming aromas toward Harry. “Mmm. Smells good, doesn’t it? Aren’t you hungry, Pigster?”

Annoyingly, Harry’s monster of a stomach rumbled a prompt reply. He smacked the monster and scolded, “Chatterbox.”

“Another party heard from,” Malfoy snorted. He stood up and moved his chair out of Harry’s way. “Let’s inspect both you and your chatty friend before we get started tonight, shall we?”

Harry gave the smallest of glares before accepting the hand Malfoy offered and levered his feet to the floor. Malfoy took both his hands and gave an exaggerated effort to help heave him up onto his feet.

Malfoy looked entirely too amused.  He winked at Harry, then dipped down to scoop up the big fig leaf. “Wouldn’t want to lose this, would you?” he teased as he handed Harry the leaf.

“Er.”  Harry stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands or the big fig leaf.

“So, let’s see. Shall we?” Malfoy stepped back to make an appraisal. “My, my, my. Your slothful habits are catching up with you, aren’t they Pigster?” He walked to Harry’s side and held up his hands to measure. “I’m not sure if you are thicker or wider at this point. Oh, yes. Now I see.” Taking a great gobbing pinch of Harry’s bum, he said, “There’s enough on your fat arse to make it dead even.”

Harry took a deep breath and let the cheering charm smooth down his instinctive reaction.  He nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Tell me Golden Boy, how is your admiring public responding to your growth spurt this week? Hm? Let me guess... They can’t get enough of their Golden Dough Boy, right?”

Thinking of a particularly ridiculous incident that afternoon, Harry blushed straight through the charm. Compelled to answer, he offered, “Reactions run from the sublime to the ridiculous. You must see it in the Prophet.”

Malfoy stepped into Harry’s space and pressed his lean, finely clad form against Harry’s squashy belly. He leaned in, ran a finger lightly along the ridge of Harry’s ear and purred, “Trust me, I do.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He shivered from head to toe. To his utter shame, his every extra bit of flesh wobbled along with his shiver.

Malfoy made a helpless little noise at the sight of Harry’s wobble. He slid his hands over Harry’s rolls and up the slope of his belly. “Gods, you’re ripe,” he said almost reverently as he cupped Harry’s moobs and rubbed his thumbs over the nipples.

The hot flush of Harry’s embarassment morphed into the heat of arousal that flooded his breasts and his cock.  Breasts??   And by Godric, he was hungry.  The succulent meaty, bready smells coming off of the dinner table had him licking his lips and wishing Draco would feed him by hand tonight.

Malfoy pinched and twisted both of Harry’s nipples harshly and the spell was broken.

Smirking at Harry’s yelp of pain, he taunted, “Did you see the Witchy Stylist’s column speculating as to the proper size for your brazier?  Push up your breasts for me, and let’s see,” he ordered.

Harry did as he was told and found himself responding strongly to Malfoy’s rough demand. His moobs burned and arousal coursed to his cock.  His cock against the hang of his belly.  He longed to be touched.  And, with hunger now linked directly to desire, his stomach interjected a long cry of need.

Malfoy took Harry’s belly in both hands and cooed at it. “Poor baby. Are you hungry? Don’t worry baby.  You shall be fed.”

Harry’s brain knew Malfoy was being ridiculous, but his stomach cheered. If his stomach was a puppy, it would have been dancing up on its hind legs begging and wagging and yipping. Not, in fact, being a puppy, Harry’s stomach did its best imitation by gurgling and growling and rippling eagerly.

Harry didn’t care. He was too busy being aroused and hungry to be embarrassed by the transparent neediness of his stomach puppy. No. Together with his puppy, every ounce of his essence transformed into a wanton, mouth-watering ball of desire.

Draco dragged moment out. He continued to run his hands over Potter’s ripe abdomen. He explored the feel of the tight, smooth, round belly, and found the top more narrow than the spreading bottom. The bottom and sides, he verified, had become soft and very squeezable.

While his hands explored, Draco kept his eyes locked with Potter’s. Potter’s eyes were bright and pleading and Draco became enthralled by Potter’s stark desire.  Desire soon distracted him from his efforts to humiliate. Instead, he, too, became aroused as he watched Potter lick his plump cherry lips and purse them, as if to say please. He watched the blush on Potter’s cheeks run into a blazing red splash on his fleshy chest that rose and fell with his quickening breaths.

“Potter,” Malfoy growled.  His gaze still fixed on Potter’s own, Malfoy advanced again into Potter’s space. He pushed Potter’s fig leaf away and reached under to find Potter’s insistent arousal.  Both men gasped. Draco pressed Potter’s sagging stomach up with one hand and palmed Potter’s hot, throbbing erection with the other. He ran his thumb through the slippery crack at the tip of Potter’s head.

Potter groaned and stumbled forward. Draco was tempted; he nearly forgot their roles. But he had a job to do. Letting go, he stepped back and forced himself to ask, “Up for dinner?”

Potter stared blankly with irises blown black with arousal.  It took him a moment to register the question.  Swallowing hard he managed, “Please.  Sir?”

Back to his regularly scheduled harassment, Draco beamed and said, “Absolutely!” Arousing side-tracks aside, Draco refocused on his goal to feed and train the Golden Goose. Except for Trixie’s games, he had fully weaned Harry off of the infinitus charm and appetite potion and Potter’s appetite continued to increase. This was an essential step in Draco’s ultimate goal of training Potter to truly become the great, greedy, slothful clod who would garner the world’s ridicule with or without Draco’s influence.

“Pop quiz, Pigster.  You must identify your first dish before you get it.  Can you tell me what’s under those silver lids?”

Harry closed his eyes and inhaled.  It all smelled wonderful, but of course the aromas blended.  “Roast beef?” he guessed.

Malfoy put his finger on his chin.  “Uh-huh.  You need to be more specific.”

Harry tried again.  There was sage and mushroom.  If it was all in the same dish, it had to be… “It’s that thing with the weird Crup name and the mushroom sauce.”

Malfoy simply raised an eyebrow.

Harry racked his brain.  He could see it and taste it from a meal a week or two ago.  “Crups Crowned Beef!”

“Well guessed!”  Malfoy applauded.  “You’d really like that, wouldn’t you?”

Harry’s mouth watered.  He nodded.  When Malfoy didn’t respond, he obediently added, “Yes, sir.  May I please have Crups Crowned Beef?”

“Too bad!” Malfoy vanished the entire dinner and pretended to look sympathetic.  “I do apologize if the quiz gave you the wrong impression.  That was just for illustrative purposes.  You are on a liquid diet tonight.  But you like that, too.  Right?”

He gestured to the chaise longue, which had been transformed into a giant version of an infant’s bouncy seat, and the keg-sized feeding bottle next to it.  “Off you go. Just scoot into to your bouncy chair, hmm?”

Harry felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him.  It was a sensation he was actually growing accustomed to. “Yessir,” he replied, looking down at the impossibly low furniture. He wouldn’t be able to ‘scoot’ anywhere on that thing, but knew there would be no getting around it.  The hell with it.  He was starving by now. The toy bar was in his way, so he yanked that off.  He bent and tried to kneel down. But, awkward with his weight, dropped painfully to his knees. No matter.  Bare ass up and and belly hanging, Harry wrestled around until he rolled into the man-sized bouncy seat. He slammed the bright and silly toy bar back into place, and looked up at Malfoy, out of breath and bobbing gently as the bouncy chair settled on its springs.  He asked, “Now please?”

“Safety first, Potter,” Malfoy insisted paternally, “Buckle up.”

"Forgot.” Harry muttered. The chair bounced madly again as he fumbled for the ends of the safety belt. He was sitting on one of the belt pieces and had a hard time heaving himself up to pull the end out from under. The harder part was fitting the center strap comfortably over his still raging erection. Distracted by hunger and blocked by his own bulk, Harry found it difficult to coordinate the simple task. Finally, pink and flustered, he tried again. “Ready now. Please?”

“What a good boy,” Draco praised as he moved Potter’s “bottle” into position. “OK.”

The giant bottle of feeding goo was mounted on a tall carrier with a tube leading to Potter’s favorite phallic nipple. Eagerly, Potter took the nipple and sucked in his first heavenly mouthful. His eyes fluttered shut at the thick, sweet nectar. He wanted it all: the touch, the taste, the pleasant filling of his stomach, which in turn fed his cock and lit up his nipples. “Good,” Harry murmured around the nipple after his first swallow. He squeezed the rubber cock tight with his fist and set to draining the bottle with a rhythmic squeeze and suck and swallow.

Draco watched intently. Without thinking, he pressed a hand to his own cock. The sight of Potter sucking cock for his meal never got old.

Harry continued his steady high-volume sucking for several minutes before seeming to relax. “Mmm,” he started humming. He set his free hand to rub gentle circles over his happy stomach. He fully experienced the tasty, heavenly fulfillment. This pure oral pleasure had become so natural for Harry that he still had a sliver of awareness to spare.

Draco was mesmerized and Harry knew it. He glanced up at Draco and pulled his lips from the nipple long enough to exhort, “So damned good.”

Harry heard Draco utter a breathless little “yes” that probably wasn’t meant for his ears, and he burned with pleasure to know he had achieved the tiniest shred of power. Thinking of power and pleasure, he eased his hand under the chair’s center strap and wrapped his throbbing live cock. _No matter how infantile the setup_ , he thought, _this is a man’s cock._ He squeezed his cock and thought _My Cock_. He winked at Malfoy and thought _Draco oughta know he’s the best Nanny. Ever. Sets me up with delicious, hot, sucking and biting and rubbing._

Pleased by Draco’s reaction, Harry thought, _Now. Now I can lose myself in pleasures._

And he did. Like a perfect symphony, Harry orchestrated the addition of new elements to enhance the pleasure of his rhythmic squeeze and suck and swallow. He added a slow bass beat with marathon-long strokes to his cock. Flexing a thigh to faster downbeat, he started rocking in his seat. As sensations developed, he let a murmured half-gasp of pleasure escape after every suck. Eventually, he arched his neck a little with every swallow and the rattle on the toy bar clattered as he rocked in his chair.

Watching Harry’s whole soul pleasure fest from above, Draco’s voyeuristic pleasure rose in tandem. He too, was lost to the moment.

Draco drank in the sight of Potter in pure pleasure. Eyes shut, brows furrowed on the anticipatory edge of fulfillment, a few drops of escaped milk pooling where his mouth sealed around the cock-nipple, Harry was the picture of wanton gratification. Still visible beneath the small roll of fat under his chin, his Adam's Apple bobbed with every swallow. His body glistened with sweat. Round and ripe and vibrant, his flesh radiated life. Soft contours set off beautifully against long tendons and muscles pulled tight with intensity. And that sound he was making was just…

Draco was so submerged in Harry’s experience that he wasn’t aware of his own reactions. He didn’t realize he’d collapsed back into his chair. He didn’t know he had slipped his hand down his trousers and around his own cock. Or that he slid to the edge of his seat. When he caught a whiff of Harry’s musky scent, he didn’t realize he moved forward to inhale his scent deeply. Without a thought, he buried his face into the crook at the bottom of Harry’s neck, where he could smell and taste and kiss. Soon, he was kissing and biting Harry’s stubbled jaw and licking the dripping milk up to the corner of Harry’s mouth. Draco’s hand adopted Harry’s long pace on his own cock and squeezed hard with need. His other hand cupped Harry’s plump pec and thumbed its center.

Harry welcomed the new sensory inputs as they melded perfectly into his symphony, but they did not distract him. The symphony would continue until he had drunk his fill. The rest was glorious icing on the cake, but his hunger had not yet be sated. He couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- didn’t want to -- stop until he was full to bursting and beyond. The nectar was too good, too sweet and he wanted as much as he could possibly get.

It was a long and glorious moment. Neither man knew how long it went on as the sensations built, but build it did. More. Fuller. Harder. Faster. More brilliant.

As Harry’s belly stretched full past pain, everything else felt more exquisite. He pulled faster, moaned louder, he lost control of his actions.

Draco would have begged, but he ordered. “Come.”

And Harry did.

And Draco did.

And, for a time, that was all either of them knew.

**  
**


	13. Sunny Side Up

November 20, 2001

_***_

_Harry stretched languidly on his picnic blanket, splayed out like the bright yellow face of a sunflower.  It felt glorious to bask in the hot sun.  His stomach felt marvelously warm and swollen.  Caressing his big domed belly, he was mildly surprised to discover that his flesh had become strangely hot and slick and soft.  He lifted his head to see his belly was a giant egg yolk.  So he wasn’t a sunflower, he was a fried egg.  Hmm.  He stretched his crispy toes and fingers to the edges of the fry pan.  Sizzling tickles.  Curious, he licked one of his crispy egg white fingers.  Excellent.  Maybe a little salt...  When he shook his fried egg bottom, he saw his yolk belly jiggle and glisten.  Not to be an egotist, but he was damned appetizing.  (He-he… egg-otist.)  Funny and tasty and sexy, too.  Just look at his big curve.  He ran his fingertips along the rim of his yolk, then sucked on them hungrily.  He was ready.  When was breakfast, damn it? Just then, a giant fork dove down and pierced his yolk.  Heh.  That tickled...and Godric, it was intense.  His yolk began to run, hot and sticky, when a giant hand dipped a three-foot long buttered soldier in to scoop up his yolk.  Wow, that was...  deep.  Nngh.  Harry looked up to find himself scrutinized by hungry steel grey eyes.  The sharp eyes roved all over his drippy egg form, then crinkled in a smile.  Malfoy…_

Z z Z z Z z

Harry’s dream woke him up.  Again.

 _No_ , he thought blearily, _that’s my alarm charm_.  As he silenced his wand, his dream thoughts began to slip out of his grasp.  Since all this FATSMO business had begun, Harry’s dreams had changed.  No surprise there.  Anyone who knew him could have predicted that his dreams would incorporate this newest anxiety the same way his troubles had always turned to nightmares.  _But the strange thing now,_ Harry thought, _I just dreamt I was happy -- truly happy -- and isn't that mad? That wasn’t just a happy dream, it was flat out bonkers.  It’s fading fast, but wasn’t I just… a fried egg? Sunny side up? Cracked!_

A shiver trickled down Harry's spine and gave him goose flesh. 

He tried to reassure himself.  _Considering the bizarre turns my life takes_ , _it makes sense my dreams are beyond absurd_.

He tried to shake off the disturbing image and began his morning wake up routine of stretching and thinking about the day to come.  He stretched his arms over his head, but his new bulk kept him from getting the good spinal arch-and-crack he was aiming for.  _Right_ , he thought sleepily.  _How can I forget?_ His hands went to confirm the obvious.  _Yep.  Even flat on my back, Belly Boy here rises up round and proud, and weighs me down._ He couldn't help but take hold and jostle his belly to start the wobbling that still felt so wondrously alien to him.  He saw the duvet shake.  _Oh, that’s new_.  He tipped his chin and peered down before jostling himself again to see his mountainous belly obviously quivering through the thick padding of his duvet.  _That was..._ He didn't actually know how he felt about that.  _Sort of awesome … sort of troubling… Its BIG, is what it is.  And it spreads out, too_ , he thought, running probing hands down his swollen sides.  And, just like yesterday, his surplus middle had pushed his pajama pants down so they were riding below his hips.  _If not for my bulging backside, they’d fall off completely,_ he thought.  _Bollocks.  Who am I fooling? These pajamas have been skin tight since I threw out the top because it wouldn’t stay buttoned.  I’ll have to remember to buy a new pair today at Garrish Brothers.  I can do that after I see Healer Slaggart,_ he supposed.  _And maybe I’ll get lunch at Turkish Tidbits.  Their buffet is brilliant.  Probably shouldn’t, though.  I’ve got no self-control at buffets._

The thought of the spicy all-you-can-eat buffet prompted a long grumble from Harry’s stomach.  _Another county heard from,_ he thought wryly.  Then, minding his manners, he greeted his growing friend out loud, “Good morning, Old Boy.  Ready for the day?” He swung his feet over the edge of his bed and rolled up onto his elbow to push himself up in the least uncoordinated way he could manage.  _Ouch, this waistband really cuts me in half.  I should definitely remember to buy new sleep pants.  Up we go_ , he thought, as he rolled forward and stood up.  _Merlin I’m stiff.  Everything is getting harder to move these days._

He looked down to see his plump pecs and rather-more-than-plump stomach jiggle as he hiked his pants up.  _Even when I’m not bursting with food, I look and feel pregnant -- very pregnant._ His round, taut belly jut out proudly and spread round his sides, molding into a squashy spare tire.  His pecs had inflated beyond mere chub and now had a definite heft to them.  They were definitely bigger than Ginny’s had ever been, and how odd was that? Hidden beneath his fat stomach, he felt constant pressure from his thick thighs forcing his legs apart -- just enough to make it really hard not to waddle.  And something else… _heh… that’s hard_ , he thought, reaching under his belly to give his half-hard cock a half-hearted stroke.  _Hmph.  Apparently, all of my swelling power is going directly to Belly Boy here._ He rolled his eyes and scolded himself, _Merlin, Harry, stop being such a nutter.  Stop it._ He had spent entirely too much time examining his growth yesterday and it had done nothing but waste time and make him feel badly.  ‘ _Embrace the FATSMO’_ he reminded himself.

Harry’s hungry stomach growled again, as if in response. 

“Shut it, you,” Harry snapped.  He had mixed feelings about his bottomless appetite.  He understood the magical forces at work and was doing his best to help FATSMO run its course.  He truly was enjoying the excuse to indulge in anything and everything.  But it was also becoming a bit of a guilty pleasure.  Was he enjoying this too much?  Would he be able to go back to reasonable eating habits when this was all done?  Would he want to?  Harry really didn’t know.  What he did know was that he was achingly hungry at the moment.  _Mmm.  That reminds me.  Breakfast should be waiting in the kitchen by now._

He knew it was back to front, but the promise of a hearty breakfast served as a lovely distraction from bothersome thoughts about his weight gain.  It must be something about making lemonade or what to do when in Rome.  Either way, the lure of breakfast was all the inspiration he needed to start moving. 

He trundled to the loo and went about his morning ablutions without delay.  Of course it was more charms work than anything else.  He felt like an oaf bumping around in his shrinking shower stall or fumbling simple tasks with chubby fingers, so he’d taken to doing more things with his wand.  Just his shower and ever-pesky hair.  And it was rather odd to see himself jiggling in the mirror, so he used a teeth cleaning charm.  And he got out of breath when he bent down to dress, so he charmed on his pants and trousers and socks and shoes.  And all the pesky buttons on his shirt.  _Ok, so I’m using magic for most everything.  No worries.  Personal grooming must count as light magic.  My magic should be pleased._

Ten minutes later, he was clean, shaved and spelled into a gloriously comfortable set of burgundy robes.  The enticement of breakfast had swept away his glum thoughts and he was humming as he headed for the kitchen.  His left leg did feel particularly wonky, so he lent heavily on bannisters and walls as he hobbled down the stairs.  Even so, he stumbled off the bottom step and caught his shoulder on the front door.  “Balls,”he grumbled.

Soon enough, heavenly smells of breakfast made Harry forget his wonky leg and aching shoulder.  He poured himself a cup of tea and carefully served himself moderate portions of fishcake, poached eggs, sausage, baked beans, toast and tomatoes onto his plate.  It tasted even better than it smelled and he polished that first plate off before he knew it.  _Come on Harry, breathe.  Do try not to Hoover, yeah? There’s plenty more for seconds and thirds.  And look at that basket of scones and muffins.  And the fruit tarts..._

All thoughts of moderation flew away and he the blissful rhythm of eating.  _Pure pleasure_ , he thought.  _Damned lucky I met Tiffany -- my Breakfast Goddess._ Tiffany was a Muggleborn witch who ran a tourist cafe across Jubilee Gardens from the London Eye.  She had come to his rescue on his third trip to Diagon Alley when his shopping bag split and his purchases scattered.  While many shoppers gawked and made rude comments, Tiffany had helped him collect his things and pack them away securely.  He’d tried to thank her, but the barmy witch wouldn’t hear of it, insisting that she was _grateful_ for the opportunity.  All in one long breath, she’d explained that she ran this little café -- nothing special, mind -- heard about his condition and had been meaning to offer breakfast delivery – no charge! – but she’d never met him and didn’t want to be too forward, and she was sure he must have taken care of that already, so she was ever so sorry to bother him.  Blushing to her roots, she had apologized to him for butting in and wasting his time! Faced with Tiffany’s sweet but ludicrous apology for helping him -- who apologized for _helping_? -- Harry couldn’t let her run off without thanking her properly.  He’d invited her to join him for lunch, his treat.  It had taken a good bit of cajoling, but in the end, he and Tiffany had shared an enjoyable lunch at the Leaky Cauldron.  Tom’s stew had been especially tasty that day, he recalled. Harry liked her.  The mother of three little ones, Harry thought of Tiffany as a younger, hipper Molly Weasley with a dash of Luna’s lunacy, who really just wanted to make sure Harry was well-fed.  Harry hadn't considered breakfast delivery, actually.  But he’d been getting impatient with his own cooking abilities, and come to think of it, it was a brilliant idea.  He agreed to her plan, but only after she agreed to let him pay something.  That is how he came to rely on breakfast from Tiffany's.  It was working out brilliantly.  Prompt and hot at half-seven, the food was delicious, there was something new every day, and served in generous portions that seemed to grow with his appetite.

As always, breakfast was so amazing that Harry got carried away and ate much more than he probably should have.  After every last dish was scraped clean, he sat back and gazed with wonder at the demolished meal.  _Merlin, I’ve outdone myself.  But really, when was the last time I didn’t overeat?_ The sitting room clock struck ten.  That gave him an hour until his appointment with Healer Slaggart.  He felt sleepy from his feast and was half tempted to move to the sitting room where he could stretch out comfortably.  As tempting as that thought was, Harry knew he shouldn’t get comfortable in the sitting room because he’d surely fall asleep.  He’d already slept through last week’s appointment for that very reason.

Despite his best efforts to read the Prophet, Harry soon began to nod off in his straight-backed kitchen chair.

“That’s no good,” Harry scolded himself.  He heaved up, brushed off the crumbs and Port-keyed to St. Mungo’s early.  He made his way to Slaggart’s waiting room where he promptly fell asleep, confident that  someone would wake him up when it was time for his appointment.

Healer Slaggart did indeed find him and wake him from deep sleep.  He stumbled sleepily into the exam room and slogged through spelling  himself out of his robes and into his lime green patient wrap.  When Slalggart came in and gave him an odd look, he glanced down to see a gap between the edges of robe.  _Shite_ , he thought as he collapsed into the patient chair in a misguided effort to hide.  Unfortunately, all that did was to squash his belly out further and widen the gap in front of his robe.  He looked back up at his healer with mild panic.  “Erm.”

A kind fellow, Healer Slaggart was already in the process of levitating an oversized robe to give him.  “Here you are Mr. Potter.  This one should be more your size.  I’ve forgotten part of your chart.  I’ll be right back.”

When Healer Slaggart returned, Harry was adequately robed and quite awake.

Fortunately, Slaggart made no comment, and instead moved right ahead with routine status charms to check Harry’s vital statistics.  An array of golden and silver runes hovered between them and self-transcribing onto Slaggart’s chart.  It was comfortingly familiar until Slaggart humphed.  Slaggart’s brow was furrowed and he was flipping chart pages, apparently double-checking against prior visits.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

“Wrong?”  Slaggart’s voice cracked.  He swallowed and continued.  “Not a thing, dear boy.  Nothing wrong at all.”

Harry knew there was something.  He really hated being kept in the dark and may have snapped a little sharply when he said, “Please, Healer.  I’m not a child.  Just tell me what the problem is.”

Healer Slaggart reassured him.  “No, no my boy.  Not a child, I’m aware.  No cause for alarm, I assure you.”

Harry lost his temper and he practically crackled with angry magic.  There was a hint of compulsion in his words when he burst out, “Don’t call me your boy! Just tell me what you scan shows!”

“Yes, indeed.  Indubitably.  A few of your vital signs are surprising -- not a problem, but still…”

“Tell me the numbers,” Harry insisted.

“It’s your weight, Mr.  Potter.  There’s been another increase.  I checked several times, but the results are the same.  You weigh 321 pounds.”  

“321?  Really?

“Yes, yes.  I’ve cross-checked and the numbers are consistent.  23 Stone, 145 Kilos, 37 Drams, or, erm, 112,400 Scruples.  It all boils down the same...  it’s… 321 pounds.”

Harry tried to suck his gut in with no success.  _112,400 Scruples?_   He felt 100 times bigger than he’d felt just a minute ago.  He crossed his arms, but the sight of his chubby forearms stacked on top of his boulder-shaped middle made him feel worse.  He didn’t quite know what to think.  _Three hundred and twenty-one pounds?_  That was more than… more than anything he could think to compare, quite honestly.  He’d been successfully ignoring the scale in his loo.  But then again, it was about the same gain he’d had at every exam, and he was supposed to be going with the flow and all. “But, hang on -- you said this was an idio-magical adjustment thing.  You said to let the magic take its course; not to worry!”

“Indeed.  I did say that, didn’t I?” Healer Slaggart sounded a bit wobbly, but marched forward.  “It’s not a problem, per se.  And yes, we shall continue to let your magic determine the course of your healing.  I didn’t mean to alarm you.  No, no.”

Frustrated by the obvious half-truth, Harry snapped, “Don’t tell me it’s nothing.  You clearly reacted to _something_.”

“Yes, you are right,” Slaggart sighed.  He pulled a chair toward the examination table and sat down to talk.  “I reacted in surprise because, indeed, I am surprised.  I had fully expected this particular aspect of your FATSMO to slow down, or take a different turn before now.  Your weight gain has far surpassed that of my previous FATSMO patients.  I’ve never before seen more than a 50% increase from a patient’s initial weight.  However,” Slaggart stood up and began to pace in thought, “you and I both must not forget that this magical overload syndrome is terribly rare.  St. Mungo’s has treated less than a handful of FATSMOs in the past half century and the scattered documentation prior to that time is unfortunately lacking in important specifics.  Your magical experiences, Mr. Potter, have been… unique, to say the very least.  In retrospect, I should not be at all surprised to see unique FATSMO symptoms.”

Still fidgeting uncomfortable, Harry tried clasping his hands in front of his belly.  But the sad fact that doing so stretched his arms to their limit made so much blood rush to his head that he got dizzy.  “I reckon,” he muttered.

“There is good news in these statistics,” the healer offered.  “Your pulse  and blood pressure are both normal.  Your Auric Tembre continues to improve.  I only find a single streak of grey fog in your Aura.  Even better, your magical core potential is over 83% potential, where it was barely 69% when last we met.  We must, both of us, trust magic to take its own course.  All will work out in the end.”

Harry nodded.  “I understand, sir.  I apologize for snapping at you.  It’s just that dealing with this whole thing is such a strange leap of faith, and if you don’t tell me everything...”

“No apology necessary.  You are bearing up admirably in an admittedly stressful situation.  I see your point and I’ll do my very best to tell you all I know,” Healer Slaggart smiled self-depreciatingly at this.  “In the spirit of full disclosure, however, I suppose the first thing I should point out is that I don’t actually know everything.  We’ll put our heads together and do our very best, shall we?”

The healer spent the next hour running Harry through his bi-monthly assessment.  He questioned Harry about his daily routine, meals, activities, sleeping habits, urges, magical practice, and mental state.  He put Harry through a rigorous set of physical tasks designed to evaluate any changes in Harry’s strength, mobility, reach and balance.  He didn’t discuss his findings until the end, but it was apparent that there were various deficits.  Harry couldn’t climb the small set of stairs without using the railing.  He stumbled even when he used his cane.  And it took him entirely too long to complete several other tasks.

They met to discuss the results in Healer Slaggart’s office.  “Things are getting harder for you,” he began.  “That much is obvious.  My question is how well you feel you are coping, and what help you need.”

Harry shrugged and stalled for time.  He was still catching his breath.  “I don’t want to complain.   Compared to some things, FATSMO is a piece of cake,” Harry snickered at the thought of all the cake he’d eaten recently.  “I’m managing pretty well, but I’ll admit it’s more and more exhausting to lug myself around.  It’d help if I knew there was an end in sight.”

Healer Sluggart looked sympathetic.  “I wish I could predict your course with any level of certainty, but I can’t.   Neither can we act in opposition to your magical healing, so magical weight loss is not an option.  I’ve looked for viable alternatives and think I may have found something that will help.”  He handed Harry a copy of a journal article and explained,  “If we can’t reduce your weight, perhaps we can reduce the gravitational burden somewhat.  A research team at the Sidney Academy of Magical Remedies developed a what they are calling a personal gravitational ward.  You apply the ward to a charm, which is worn on the person.  The bottom line is that the ward limits gravity to reduce an individual’s weight by one-fifth.”

Harry scanned the details in the article and agreed, “It sounds like it would be very helpful.  Could we get in touch with these Healers from Sidney?”

At this, Slaggart actually grinned.  “We could.  I did.  And I’ve taken the liberty to procure a charm for you.”

 

When Harry Flooed to the rear reception at Garrish Brothers, he felt like a great weight had been lifted.  Because, well, because it had.  He was just as big and bulky, but his size seemed much less of a problem when he didn’t have to exert himself quite so much.

“Good day, Harry!  You look to be in good spirits today,” Gavin Garrish greeted him warmly.  “Is there anything I can help you with today, or are you simply heading out for your mid-day stroll?”

“A very good day to you, as well,” Harry replied with a grin.  “Sleepwear, I think.  Do you carry pajamas and bath robes?” This was, of course, a silly question.  After perusing an extraordinary selection, Harry bought an endlessly generous bath robe and a pair of pajamas from the Way Back collection.  The deep blue bathrobe was perfectly soft and fluffy, but it was the pajamas that really caught Harry’s attention.  The bottoms were littered all over with peace symbols and the front of the oversized top was printed with a big yellow smiley face.  It was almost the color of ducks feet, Harry thought.  No, not ducks feet, he thought, that almost-orange is the color of an egg yolk.  Either way, his new almost-orange pajamas made Harry feel happy and warm inside.


	14. Scouting

20 November, 2001, 1:10 pm, Diagon Alley

 

Draco leaned casually _– ok, skulked—_ against the corner of Madame Malkin’s shop waiting for today’s episode of his favorite comic tragedy – _Potty’s Pratfalls_.  He’d cast a Notice Me Not charm in hopes none of Diagon’s _good people_ might accuse him of _existing_.  Hmph.   _Lurking_ like a common criminal put him in so foul a mood he actually  _sneered at_ _himself._  Unseemly or not, lurking couldn’t be helped.  Despite tolerating his continued business, even Madame Malkin would chase him away if she spotted him.  He’d glimpsed Potter in Garrish Brothers, but a wall of gossiping witches blocked his view.   _Why don’t you move, you old biddies?  Bother and damn_.  I’ll have to cross the ally to see _anything_.  

Draco dashed across the ally, keeping a careful lookout at the hurrying rush of foot traffic so as not to run into anyone who didn’t see him.  He was nearly there, when, “Ack!”  Something quite hard bashed his forehead.

“Excuse me!  S-sorry!”  came _that_ voice.  Even blinded by pain, Draco knew the voice was unmistakably Potter’s _.  Hex it all, I never meant for Potter to see me._   Draco blinked up to see his pathetic nocturnal plaything, but no!  On top of being dazed by the blow to his head, Draco was stunned.  He, who had Potter under his thumb every night and examined him like the fat, squashy bug that he was, barely recognized his victim today.  This was neither his unwilling nighttime plaything, nor his pathetically bloated and bedraggled daytime alter ego.  This Potter stood tall and confident as if his ridiculous bulk were an advantage.  With his bright eyes and rosy cheeks, he looked at ease in elegant grey robes over black silk shirt and trousers that fitted his form so perfectly they disproved any criticisms regarding his size.  Riotous as ever, his hair was no longer unruly, but a garden of thick curls inviting one to run one’s hand amongst them.

And those lips… audaciously sucking on a bright red lolly.  Draco was drawn to the sight of the lolly – now purple – sliding out from between Potter’s lips;  Potter’s stained tongue lapping the lolly and sucking it back.  Potter’s smirk…

Draco tore his attention away from that smirk and out of his daze.  He adopted a sneer of his own and berated Potter’s clumsiness.  “Watch it, you lout! 

Potter’s apology was inexplicably cheery. “Merlin, Malfoy.  Sorry.  I didn’t mean—I really clocked you, didn’t I?  It was my cane.  I was waving to Mr. Garrish and I guess I spun round while my hand was coming down—“

 _What a nightmare._  “Potter, you clod!  Do stop gibbering,” Draco snapped.

“Right.  Are you all right?”  Potter sounded sincerely concerned, but still looked happier than he had any right to be.

Draco stopped rubbing his forehead and sniffed dismissively.  “Of course.  I’m fine.”  He took a hard look at Potter to rework his first impression.   _Why in heaven’s name can the fool be happy?  Doesn’t the gigantic boob know how ridiculous he looks?  Like a flustered puffer fish bobbing about in a current._   A bit of a weak effort, but it was enough to let Draco raise a disdaining brow and sneer,  “What are you so cheery about?  You just hit me and you look likely to wobble over and roll down the Alley.  What in Merlin’s name hap—ooohh _, yess_.”  Draco drew out the name of the syndrome, “ _FATSMO_ , if I recall?”

“Yes,” Potter said shortly.  “I’m...  I reckon a lot of things have happened since we saw each other last.”  Potter shrugged.  “I’ve been at rather loose ends.  What about you, Malfoy?”

 _Ha!  If only you knew._  Draco swallowed his glee.  “Nothing, really.  I’m looking for the right situation, but nothing appeals.”

“Mm,” Harry didn’t look fooled.  “So what brings you here today?”

 _You._ “Er, I had an appointment,” he lied.  “I’m just heading home.”

Harry brightened.  “Well, good.  If you’ve nothing else, you should join me for lunch and we’ll catch up.  My treat for knocking into you.”

 _What?!  No good can come of this._ Draco channeled his panic into a fair imitation of scorn.  “’Catch up?’  Don’t be **_absurd_** –“ he was just winding up when someone interrupted.

 _“Harry!_   Oi there, Harry.” That smarmy Quidditch clerk had the cheek to put his hand on Potter’s shoulder and glare daggers at Draco.  “Oi.  What do you think _you’re_ doing?  Mr. Potter doesn’t need _your_ sort of _rubbish_.  C’mon Harry.  I’ll walk with you.”

Ever slow on the uptake, Potter stared dumbly between Draco and the detestable clerk before pulling away and correcting, “No.  It’s all right, Xavier.  This is my classmate, Draco—“

“I know who _he is_.” Xavier cut in rudely.  “And what _he’s done_.  No need for pleasantries.  Make yourself scarce, _Death Eater._ ”

“Seriously, Xavier,” Potter said more firmly.  “Don’t be rude.  I don’t need help.  I was just asking Draco to join me for lunch, actually.”  Potter turned to Draco with a look that was almost hopeful.  “What do you say, Malfoy?  Lunch?”

Draco knew a million reasons not to accept the invitation.  He knew absolutely, from the deep dark bottom of his reptilian heart, that accompanying his nightly prisoner and plaything to a one-on-one social outing – in public – was sheer madness.  No matter how perfect his plan, no matter how brilliant the Black heirlooms upon which he designed his scheme, it was simply begging to be caught.  A Malfoy was far too self-interested to stick his head out like that.  But… it was Potter, still charged with the same inexplicable magnetism that had attracted Draco since they first met.  His smile was genuine and charming in a way it never was at night.  Most of all, Draco was exceedingly curious at what Potter might think of his FATSMO life.  He justified he could make excellent use of daytime observations in his continuing nocturnal torments.  He would collect ammunition with which he would mock Potter ruthlessly _._   And the clerk looked too smug.  So, _just to show up this smarmy berk, and in no way connected to Potter’s stupid face…_ Draco conceded reluctantly, “Alright, Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This is obviously only the first half of a 'going to lunch' chapter. I hope to post part two this weekend.

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? Weirdly good? Oddly odd? Rocks your socks? 
> 
> Will do Snoopy Dance for feedback...


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